


'Ashur nurtu kuylê 'la murudmi (Every day of my life until I die)

by Meysun



Series: Mamarrakhûn (Shield Brother) [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Because Dwalin will all make us cry in the end, Death, Dwalin Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Loss of Faith, Love, Male Friendship, Mamarrakhûn, Memories, Oaths & Vows, POV First Person, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Protective Dwalin, Scars, at least that's what i hope, thorin's funeral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4184373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/pseuds/Meysun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin's farewell to Thorin after Ravenhill, as he guards his body on that last, dark night before he is laid down in his tomb. Words that speak of loss, of anger and loneliness, but above all of friendship and love, of an oath so strong that it does not end with death.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PericulaLudus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/gifts).



This is not what was meant to be.

This is not what was meant to be. That was never what was meant to be.

Mahal have mercy upon my words – but You acted wrongly. You took away the wrong souls. You wrote those words of destiny while You were looking away, surely – erase them, just erase them and write them down properly, if You are truly the Maker, the One we put our faith in, the One that should be guiding our steps!

Just look at what You let happen, and try to make amends. Try, if You can, but I won’t listen to You anyway, I won’t listen, my ears are ringing and my breath is failing me, and I am crying, crying despite of myself, before turning to the one I have always followed, the one I will still try to forgive because I loved him more than I loved You.

And I don’t care to be damned – I am telling the truth, I always told the truth, and if it means getting cursed by You, I don’t care. You already cursed me, taking my friend away from me, and if You cannot forgive me for that love I still harbour, then I care even less... You are the Maker, are You not? You made me like this, You made him the way he was – You made him suffer and bleed and cry, and still You did not save him... I don’t even want to talk to You anymore. I won’t pray to You anymore. You are lost to me, because he is lost to me, and since he won’t come back, neither will I.

Neither will I.

It is so still, in that hall, so still and quiet. The only sounds are my sobs, and it has long been past, the time where I would cry like this – my father’s death, actually, close to the pyres in Azanulbizar, so long ago... Fundin dead, Náin dead...

The unthinkable had happened already that day... The unthinkable for me – my father dead, my rock shattered, his armour rent, his smile gone and his brown eyes closed...

And the unthinkable for you – you who are lying so still here, on that stone, waiting for me to come closer, to touch you, to fulfill my last duty towards you... The great Bear, that Skin-changer, he was not afraid to touch you... He came closer to the place you were stretched, where the Halfling was still clinging to you, where we had only been able to fall on our knees, crushed by the terrible awareness that you had fallen, you, our King, but not only you, our two Princes as well, trying to save your life... We were guideless, and the line of Thrór was broken...

The great Bear bent over you, and he closed your eyes, his broad hand touching your face gently, and suddenly you looked even younger, even more fragile... There were deep rings under your eyes – you had not slept for days, and your cheeks were bloodless – it had soaked the snow under you, soaked the snow, and your jerkin, and your tunic...

Rubies scattered on the snow – your own private treasure leaving your body...

The great Bear gathered you – gathered you body actually, but for me it was you still, even though I had to watch another carry you, because I had no strength, no will anymore, not after that, not after the unthinkable...

There were no weapons in your hands. It struck me, suddenly, as I watched Beorn stand up, holding you close to his bare chest – he did not shiver in the snow, he did not care for the cold, and neither did you... but your face was so pale, standing out against his tanned skin...

Your palms were open, your lips slightly parted – you must have struggled so much to breathe, in the end, there was blood on your teeth and at the corners of your mouth, but still your face looked peaceful, not alive but at peace, that long, raven hair of yours still wet, wavering slightly under the wind’s sharp bite...

The sun was setting, throwing a golden light upon you and Beorn, but there was no warmth, no light in my heart, I could only gaze at you, and think that you were leaving, that you had already left, without a word, without a second thought actually – and it hurt, it hurt and it hurts still, it’s tearing my chest apart and you are not there to comfort me...

Beorn gazed down at you – and the amber of his eyes was sad. Somehow you had managed to find your way to his savage soul as well, and it must have been because you shared the same pain. Your kin slaughtered, the rage you would feel in your heart, turning you both into beasts every once in a while... Both so strong – and now you were a small, broken body in his broad arms, and he grieved. The great Bear grieved.

He carried you down the steps, slowly, and I followed. I always followed. I did not look at the dead bodies – I was the one who had scattered them, down there, but it still had not been enough, I should have been faster, I should have reached you before that pale Orc... I should have held you back – oh Thorin...

And now here I am, facing you, trying to make my tears stop – what use are they to you, my friend? What use am I to you now – this was not what was meant to be...

_'Ashur nurtu kuylê ‘la murudmi..._

Every day of my life until I die. Until I die. Not you. Never you.

Mahal got it all wrong, I have not pledged my life to you to see you end like this, you idiot – you stupid, crazy, thoughtless, savage, burning little idiot...

Here I am, shouting at you like a fool, and you are still lying there. Not moving, not breathing. You are so calm – you look so calm... Did you know you would end like this? Did you plan it, somehow – you never were whole after Azanulbizar, you just pretended, didn't you? You only yearned to join him – you thought of him every day, even after a hundred years your heart kept calling for him, your little _kudzaduz_...

Somehow that wound never managed to heal... But Fíli and Kíli – they put an appeasing balm on that terrible injury, they helped you to overcome the unthinkable for decades, they made you smile and feel warm and loved again, and with them you learned you could still laugh...

You have built so much, in that hard life of yours, you have strived so hard and built so much, you were a King already, why did you search for those Halls, why did you seek the door to that accursed key, why did you leave those soft, blue Mountains where you have indeed been happy, for Erebor’s solitary peak...?

What did you expect to find here, I wonder? It was not the treasure that called for you – not when you left, and not when you entered Erebor... Was it the Arkenstone, that stone you had always despised and feared, every time you would mention your grandfather?

Or was it even worse – did you think you could fix it all, call back the dead from their graves and burning pyres, and make them walk through those halls once more, those halls where you had indeed been happy and whole, for a few years when you were only a child...?

What evil promise has been whispered to you – what desperate beliefs and shattered illusions made you break, in the end? What made you shrink from friend and kin, only to lose yourself in the depth where gold had neither warmth nor light...?

Why was what you already had not enough...?

You do not answer. You probably did not have the time to think it all over – I hope you did not, I hope you died at peace, knowing you had killed that Orc at last, that pale shadow that had broken every promise of rest...

Mahal, how could you be so stupid? I have looked at that frozen lake, I have been searching for each step and trace I could find, and even now, I still don’t understand. You had him. You made him fall under the ice, he was below you, unable to harm you... But you – you still had to assure yourself, you had made that mistake before on the gates of Moria, had believed you had wounded him deadly, had not made sure his body was indeed lifeless, and he had returned, he had returned to haunt your life and your dreams...

So you followed, on the ice. You stupid little idiot.

And of course he was not dead. Of course he used your worst fear to drag you back to him, and you – you were so weak and so fragile inside, your mind was barely yours again and you had just watched Fíli fall... You did not even think it was a trap, you walked slowly towards him, so slowly... I have seen the marks on the snow, they are deep and dragging, nothing like the hurried steps you took while fighting – those steps of you were like a sleepwalker’s...

And so he stabbed your foot. Of course he did, don’t deny you have been so stupid as to bend over the ice and look at him, I have seen the blood on your boot, and the red steps you left afterwards on the snow, once he was dead indeed, once you had finished him off and were able to drag yourself to the edge of the ice, taking a last look at that Mountain whom you had given everything...

And after stabbing your foot, he crushed you against the ice, and that is when I fail to understand you... That is when I want to shake you, and yell at you, and call you more that stupid, call you a reckless traitor, a headless fool, because it is so plain to see what happened then, and it makes me weep, calling forth hot, angry sobs I cannot repress anymore...

You just opened your arms and welcomed the blade.

Don’t say you did not welcome it. It is the worst lie you could ever tell. You were yearning for that blow, ever since you had seen Fíli fall, and even long before – you were just calling for that blade, any blade, ever since your sun had set before the gates of Moria...

Was there no other way, no other way to kill that pale, accursed foe that followed you through all these years? Did you have to give your life to see him dead...?

Thorin, please – tell me there was no other way. Tell me you did not die to run away from life. Tell me it was no suicide, but a sacrifice, a sacrifice you had not wanted, nor planned, and that was not welcome, that it pained you, that it was the hardest decision of your life and that you still regret it.

But you do not answer.

You only lie there, and suddenly I cannot bear to see you stretched like that, alone and cold on the stone. You have been carried here for me to tend to you – tend to your wounds, remove those wet clothes from your lifeless body, so as to dress you as a King. A King who died, a King whose life was taken in front of the very walls of his kingdom, but a King still...

They don’t know that it doesn’t matter what clothes you wear, how dirty you might be... Even smeared with dirt and blood, even dressed in rags, even thin and starved and shivering with cold or fever – you were my friend, my cousin, my Prince and my King...

And it has been an honour. Just as it is an honour to be with you still, for that one, last, dark night where I will sit close to you and keep watch – make sure your soul crosses that famous white bridge you once told me about...

Let me come close to you. Shift a bit, silly, let me take your head between my hands and make it rest on my lap once more... I have done that so many times, I have held you against me so often during all these years, ever since that day you came back to me, starved and ill, your gaze haunted by nine weeks of exile and hunger, a Dwarfling still, but a Dwarfling who had seen death, and had been close to die himself...

Well here we are, now. Me, sitting on the stone, and you, lying in my lap, not stirring at my touch, your chest still as marble under my hand, and your forehead cold under my fingers – let me brush that half-loosened braid aside, I cannot see you properly, and I want to.

No one is going to take those last hours from me. No one, not even you.

I am not frightened to touch you, see? I even brush that wound on your temple – where did you get that one, eh? Trying to get the same battle mark as me – well you failed. You are still handsome, your face unspoiled, and I won’t stop looking at you.

I won’t stop looking at you, and I won’t stop talking to you. Yes – I know what your farewell words would have been. You and I, we shared ours years ago – a promise that only spoke of the hope we would never actually have to do it, say farewell and leave the other.

But you did. You did leave me, and this was not what was supposed to happen.

 _Don’t weep. I have reached the sun again_.

That is what you would have told me. And I know it is true – just look at your face, you are not smiling, you are not asleep, a child can see that you are dead, cold as the stone that support us both...

But you are at peace. I can see it so clearly – and it hurts, to see that you only truly found it in death, that you never reached that calm, quiet state alive...

Yet somehow, now that I hold you, now that I can stroke your forehead, bury my fingers in your raven locks, and look at your face that has always been my own, private light, my reason to keep going – it also holds comfort...

I am glad you found your peace. I wish you joy, and light, and warmth – everything you lacked in this world, may you get it in afterlife...

But please – before you truly go, before you cross that bridge and leave me, before my life without you begins, and I do not know how I will be able to live through it, Thorin, that’s not what I pictured, I always thought you would be the one holding on and burying me, for that’s what was meant to happen, that’s how it should have been...

Before you cross that bridge let me talk to you. Let me tell you how you found your way to my heart – why I weep now that you are gone... Why it was indeed an honour to be at your side, why I never hesitated to pledge my life to you, while that oath I swore while we were still children has been the strongest moment of my life, one that still fills me with pride and love...

Let me tell you, while I hold you and keep watch for you.

Let me tell you why I followed you, and remember.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The first time I saw you, you were actually asleep. You don’t remember, I know you don’t – you were oblivious to everything around you, so fast asleep that even the touch of your father’s hand against your back and his voice could not rouse you.

Thráin was carrying you, you were resting on his hip, so light that he was holding you with one arm only. You had one hand on his shoulder, but your grip had long slackened and your other arm was hanging limply at your side, your fingers curled up even in your sleep. Your whole body looked soft and relaxed, and I can see you still, a little Dwarfling in his night-blue tunic, overcome by sleep...

Your face was hidden against your father’s shoulder and the only thing I could discern was your hair, dark locks that reached your shoulders but were still unbraided. Sweat had curled them around your face, and you had indeed strived hard – you had been running up and down staircases the whole day, determined to help so that everything could be ready for our arrival.

You wanted to see every room, to know where everyone would be lodged, you had followed your father’s steps absolutely everywhere, and had been determined to watch out for our coming on Erebor’s ramparts at his side.

You had questioned my brother, on and on, trying to know the precise moment where our arrival would be due, and you had risen early, too excited to sleep – and had waited, had been ready to welcome us, even though the sun was setting, even though night was closing in so that the road was barely visible...

You had not even complained, had spent almost an hour leaning against the ramparts on tiptoes, and my brother told me how still you had remained, looking at the Mountain pass where we were supposed to arrive, waiting – watching out.

Such a different watch than the terrible stand you held on those very ramparts, only a day ago – Thorin, why was it the stone did not help you to remember, why was even the image of Kíli not enough, his slender hand resting on the stone, standing close to you yet not understanding you anymore...?

Your eyes are closed – you do not see me, and I should stop burdening you with words. I know you fully realized what you had become, that you have desperately tried to make amends, and you did, you did it in so many ways... You did not have to _die_ , though – please, Thorin, why did you let that blade pierce through you, we would have forgiven you, we all did, we followed you outside, did we not...? And the Halfling you had threatened, hurt and frightened... he was the one holding your hand, cradling you against him in the end – surely you knew he loved you as we all did, knew that you were not yourself, on those ramparts and in those walls, and halls, where you should have ruled but only crumbled...

My friend. My wonderful friend – I am not doing you justice. Those halls were also where you found the way back to yourself... I do not know what happened down there, between the moment where you turned against me – so fierce and yet so weak, and that morning where you came out as the King you always were for me...

Of course we all followed. And I the first – as always.

Yet that day we were late, had been delayed on the road. And in the end your father must have pitied you, seeing your eyelids get heavy and heavier, while the strain you imposed on your small legs had become too much. You probably stopped standing on tiptoes, and had lost sight on the Mountain pass, and so Thráin hoisted you up so that you could pursue your watch...

You never knew any measure in things, did you? In the end, it would always be you, the one emptied of every strength, unable to enjoy what you so dearly strived for... You would always worry about everyone, allowing them to rest, and never have the same indulgence with yourself, always needing someone to remind you that you had the same right... Mahal at least gave you enough insight to stay close to people that could make sure you did not completely forget yourself...

And so that day your father picked you up, and held you against him, and in the end your little body gave in and you lost yourself in sleep, just as you had lost yourself in endless preparations and watching out...

He rubbed your back, he called your name softly, he tried to make you stir – but I’m not sure he put his whole heart into it, you were so exhausted and needed your rest, and offered such a sight to him, your lips half-parted, your body resting against his, the image of trust and abandon itself...

I remember him smiling, and explaining softly to Náin what you had been up to, and so it came that, though Dáin and me had plenty of time to gaze at you, taking you in, wondering what you looked like awake – and smirking, because we thought ourselves so much older and stronger – you did not have the chance to look at us.

Your mother picked you up from your father’s arms and your face became visible for several seconds – and it was so serious even in sleep, you probably thought you were on watch still, for you were frowning slightly, but you still looked like a little boy, your cheek bearing the mark of your father’s chainmail against which your face had rested...

Your mother kissed you, drawing you against her, but still you did not stir, and she stroked your hair, resting your head against her neck, before carrying you to bed, and how small you looked in her arms, your feet dangling softly as she walked away with you...

I wonder how you must have felt, once you woke up...

“Why did you come so late?”

Those were the first words you said to me. Oh Thorin... Why did I come so late, why did it take me so long to get rid of those Orcs, to fight my way up to you on those icy stairs – why did that Warg have to be there, why was it that I could not be there at your side in that frozen, accursed place that has seen you fall...?

Why – Mahal, why...?

But Mahal won’t answer. Neither will you – you are lying so still here, so still and cold... You must have been so cold out there, so cold and desperate, your hair is still wet with flakes and they don’t melt, there’s no more heat in you to warm them up...

I am brushing them away. You never liked snow – its beauty was lost to you long ago, I know you would have wanted them away. See... They are gone, the only reminder of snow in your hair now are those few, white locks that mingled with your raven mane – somehow they never helped to make you look older, you looked still so young, you had life before you still...

I have seen you fade, lately, I have seen you become what you always dreaded to be, and yet... I have also seen you smile, and acknowledge that soft side in you that had somehow been crushed and repressed, ever since that key found its way back to you, burdening you with your family’s curse and desire of revenge...

That soft side I have always seen, despite the fences and shields you would edify – despite your stubbornness, and your fierce, proud and passionate soul... It was there in your voice, always – you never spoke much, my friend, and a good thing it was, for that deep voice of yours ever betrayed everything you wanted to hide...

Getting fierce despite of yourself when you felt hurt or vulnerable... Breaking, becoming hoarse when you were holding back tears – and I wish I could have witnessed that less often, for you had more than your share of grief...

So soft when you addressed others in love – and you did. Thank Mahal you did – your family, of course, each and every one of them, even your grandfather, and you never noticed that this was the surest way to keep us all rooted to you. Somehow you always thought we clung to you because of your strength, because of what you represented, what you had been taught to become – our King, the one we would follow...

It never really entered your mind that it was because we would not deprive ourselves from your warmth, that we would feel cold and lost without you, like a day without sun...

How clouded my sky is going to become... Tell me, Thorin – where am I supposed to find light and warmth now...?

Forgive my despair – you would not have wanted that. See, I’m wiping them away, they have not even been there. Look, my hand is dry – I won’t smear tears on your fingers, you would have hated it, would not have known what to do, what to say...

You would have held my fingers, though. I know you would. That firm grip of yours, where I could sometimes feel the hard touch of your rings – you have held my hand endless times, and it was worth every word you could think of...

“Why did you come so late?”

That day you were facing us small yet erect, your chin slightly lifted – we were so much taller than you, I was seventeen and Dáin eighteen, while you were approaching your twelfth summer, but it did not seem to unsettle you.

Your parents had brought you with them, had introduced you to all of us and I had been amazed to see that you remembered perfectly how to address everyone. You were so young, I thought you barely out of the age where children only follow their own ideas, letting their parents deal with the rest... But you – no, you were never one to let others speak for you, and you had received a hard and demanding education...

You addressed Náin as your uncle, and my father as your cousin, always respectful, not using the familiar address – I had been struggling with that with years, to my mother’s despair, it had taken me ages to understand that it was not because I loved someone and felt close to him that I had to address them like I’d speak to my father...

You were even addressing your own father in that way – it struck me at once, how formal words always were between you, and yet how close you seemed... There might be a distance in words, but the way your body yearned for him, that look you had on your face when he smiled at you, the way your eyes shone when he would rest his hand upon your hair, stroking back one of your curls...

“Well done, _dashat_...”

He would say it, every now and then – and it meant the world to you, were it because you had finished some work, scribbled down your runes, learned endless dates by heart or fought, hours long, in hard training, against him or your other teachers... You would never be wholly satisfied, unless those fatherly words would seal those deeds...

Well done, _dashat_... I hope that is what he will say to you, when you meet at last in the Halls where he has long been waiting for you. I hope he will, for you deserve it.

But with us you were not formal. You had bowed, as your father had told you our names, and so had we, but once Thráin had left you, you had looked at us, earnestly, for some seconds, and then you had asked your question, in a childish voice that still sounded firm.

“Why did you come so late?”

\- What business is that of yours?”

Dáin had ever been rough when someone took him by surprise – and it certainly did not happen often, he ever was a tough one and looked at life and people in good-humoured shrewdness. But you – you looked so serious, your gaze never lowering, and somehow it looked strange, it made us want to blush, and yet, you were only a kid...

You arched your eyebrows, unsettled by his answer – I bet you were used to having your questions answered without delay or discussion ever since you were born, you spoiled, smart and bright little Prince...

“Balin said you would have been there before sunset, but you were not. What happened to make you come so late?”

There was accusation in your voice – you did not really know how to deal with Dáin... You were ever caught with elder Dwarves, they were always pushing you, asking something of you, and your proud, dutiful, committed little soul somehow never questioned that, never asked for a moment where you could actually live your age, and play, interact with others in another way than in duty...

Thank Mahal there was Frerin. With him you could be small and young indeed – turn the room upside down, fight, yell, laugh and play... He ever was the one calling you back to yourself, and it was so moving to see that pretence of calm and strength that was weighing so heavily upon your shoulders just vanish when he entered the room...

You would struggle, at first, he would threw himself against you, hugging your knees, lifting his round little face towards you, smiling at you, his small teeth pearl white.

“Toyin...”

He did not manage to say your name, or his. Toyin, Dada, Mama and Feyin. That was how he called you and your family, and you pretended to get angry, repeating your name endlessly to him so that he could pronounce it right, but Frerin did not care.

“Toyin, come. Make Feyin fly.”

And you would smile, eventually, grab him around the waist and lift him, with a grunt – he was heavy for you but you still would carry him, and spin him around you. Only a few seconds, after that it was too much, you would let yourself fall on the ground, panting, and Frerin would throw himself upon you, sitting himself upon your chest and grabbing your wrists.

“Wait... wait just a second...”

You were still breathless, and he waited indeed, smiling at you, his gaze bright with anticipation.

“Right, stand up but keep holding my hands...”

He did, his little legs firmly anchored on the ground, his fingers knotted around yours. And you would remove your boots, stripping them off with an impatient foot movement, before dragging your knees around your chest and resting your feet against his hips.

“Keep holding. Don’t be afraid.”

As if Frerin could indeed, he was beaming, leaning against your feet, and laughing in sheer joy when you slowly extended your legs, lifting him in the air, holding him firmly with your hands and smiling at him.

Why was it Balin never had done that with me...?

“Fly, Frerin...”

And you would bend your legs softly, making his little weight shift, listening to his laughter, and laughing yourself, eventually, because his joy was lightening everything around him.

I have watched you play with him, endless times, standing against the doorframe, hidden from your view. Because during that first stay – during that first stay we did not manage to get close, somehow every word we exchanged drew us more apart.

“Do you always believe what Balin says?”, I asked – you had turned towards me, trying your luck with me after Dáin, and somehow your tone of utter sureness in my brother’s beliefs had irritated me.

Your gaze clouded – you were a child still, had never questioned anyone’s words before, and I was shattering your confidence. You had only been worried about us – had wondered if something bad had happened on the road, but rather than voicing your fears you had chosen to sound commanding, and I should have guessed... I should have guessed it was only a defence, hiding your shyness away, after all I was the elder one, but I did not.

“Balin never lies...”

Your voice was lower, but still sounded sure, and I could not resist to pushing you a bit further.

“Ah but he did yesterday – we did not come at sunset, we came at night and you were already fast asleep.

\- I was not.

\- Fast asleep and snoring...

\- I was not!”

Dáin and me were laughing then, laughing at the indignation in your eyes, at the hot glow on your cheeks – it had mattered so much to you to welcome us, and we, unfeeling brutes, we never thought of how you could have felt waiting for us for hours...

You were breathing fast, struggling with words and not knowing how to handle it – no one had ever teased you in that way, and you were losing your ground... In the end you just stood there, facing us, your small fists balled, silent and hurt.

We were still laughing when that tall, blond, fierce Dwarf came to join us – his face barred with scars, his eyes a challenge, and our laughter ebbed instantly. Dagur was his name – one of your training masters, and he had not even witnessed our conversation, yet we became silent.

“What an exciting day, laddie, eh? Wouldn’t want to train today – would you?”

He was smiling to you – he clearly thought highly of you, despite the fact that you barely reached his waist and that one knock of his broad fingers would have you sprawled on the ground. And he wanted to give you joy with a holiday – but you had been hurt, and only yearned to run away.

“Yes I want...”, you said, turning your back on us and reaching for his hand.

You smiled at him, you were so relieved that he had come to fetch you, you only wanted to get away from us, and Dagur raised his eyebrows – probably impressed by your commitment, not understanding at all that it was only a flight.

“Of course I want.”

He grunted, and nodded at us, before taking you away, your fingers disappearing in his grasp, walking in brisk, broad steps, while you were struggling to keep up, almost running at his side.

“He’s going to beat him up...”, Dáin whispered – Dagur had impressed him beyond measure, and somehow, so had you, not even afraid to face him...

So we followed you, and we watched you – and it was a sight indeed, for you trained for hours without complaining, revelling in exercise and movement, your little body amazingly supple and swift.

He made you warm up for almost an hour, making you run, stretching your muscles, warming up your joints – you barely needed him to tell you what to do, you were doing it almost every day, and he was nodding approvingly, while we were just amazed by your endurance.

For afterwards he made you fight. He handed you a wooden stick – you were still too young to wield axe or sword, you were not even training in chainmail yet – and then you faced him. And he was not really holding back his blows.

For almost an hour, he only asked you to try and avoid his attacks, while getting used to the weight of the stick in your hand, learning to take in the restraint it could represent in battle as well... You also had to parry his blows, and he had tied thick leather bands around your wrists to protect them, but I still saw you wince, every now and then, when Dagur’s blow had just been so hard that it had echoed through your very bones...

And then he made you attack him, and there he really pushed you, yelling at you because you were not swift enough, mocking you, calling you a Dwarfling – the best way to call for your last resources indeed, but he still would restrain you, reminding you not to waste away your strength, not to let anger blind you, to let instinct guide you without getting carried away...

And you listened, and what a sight it was, to see you move, spin and shift, so small and yet facing Dagur who was smiling actually, enjoying his lesson with you, his blue eyes shining with pride when you managed to touch his chainmail at last.

“Well done, laddie. Enough for today.”

You were panting and drenched in sweat back then, and your legs were shaking with exhaustion, but still you smiled, handing him back the wooden stick. He made you bend and stretch, after that – you had spent almost three hours with him, an endless time for so young a child, and Dáin and me had sat, watching you, fascinated, almost forgetting where we were.

He released you after you had bowed, thanking him for the lesson, always remembering what should be done, and sent you to your bath... You walked past us, actually, and you were done for, really done for, but still you stopped, as if you wanted to say something.

You faced us for some seconds, and your tunic was damp, your breath still short and your locks plastered against your forehead.

“It was the bridge...”, you said, and you were still struggling to find back your breath. “I asked Dagur. He said a bridge had been damaged, just before the Mountain pass. It took three hours to repair it, and another one to cross it because it was still unstable. So it makes four hours after sunset, and that’s when you came. Balin did not lie.”

And then you turned once more, leaving us gazing at you, struck mute by the way you had still kept your thoughts focused on one theme, until you had got your answer, and by your unwavering loyalty to my brother. We did not see you for the rest of the day – your mother kept you with her, noticing your drawn features, the strain of those two days having been too much. She told my mum you had almost fallen asleep in your bath, and that after that you had been whiny, unwilling to answer the slightest request – you did not want that shirt, you wanted the other but it was dirty, you did not want to finish your plate, you never liked that dish, you wanted your father and kept asking for him...

In the end she just put you into bed, despite your protests and your tears – because it ended in tears, of course, you were still so small... She said you slept almost immediately, she did not even have time to finish the first song – and she sighed as she spoke those words, adding softly:

“I wish he would not always push himself so hard...”

You slept through the whole afternoon, and only woke up to eat dinner – and again she kept you with her, always watchful and protecting, and you did not mind. You had reached your limits, and she was there to prevent you from crossing them – and she was everything to you, just as your father was. You did not even need us... You did not need us, and the funny thing was that, despite our teasing – we were the ones regretting not to be able to have another look at you, to get to watch and hear you a bit more. We had unsettled you, and you were in awe of us, but you had impressed us – and you did not even know it.

You were still curious about us, though – unwilling to talk, but still yearning to know us better, and you would come closer slowly, like a fierce little bird, trying to take us in and always ready to pull back swiftly. That gaze of yours... So bright and piercing, standing out in your childish face as if you were already looking at this world for years... It was unsettling, a challenge actually – _let me look at you, and take you in, and if you do not harm me, I will stay with you and ever be faithful to you_...

It mattered so much to you. To be accepted, to be among us – to be considered as our cousin and not like a small, little Dwarfling. I think you felt lonely, somehow, but were too young to be fully aware of it. You just yearned for some company, someone who was not Balin, your father or your little brother, but you did not know how to ask for it and get it.

So that famous day you had again come after us, in one of the lower halls, where Dáin and me had been wrestling for fun, and were now sitting close to each other, discussing our plans for the rest of the afternoon.

And suddenly we lift up our heads and there you stood. We had not heard you approach – you knew those halls better, had probably been watching us for a while, and somehow it irritated Dáin.

“Get lost, Thorin. Stop sneaking around and following us!”

It left you speechless – no one had ever pushed you away so roughly.

“And grow a beard first if you can...”

How you glared at him, then... You were still struggling with words, unsure of how to answer, and then you looked at me – asking for help, little Thorin, I see it clearly now, but I was young and stupid and ever a teasing brute, I did not do you good that day...

“I’d go and get your Mum if I were you...”, I said, while Dáin was laughing at your scowl that only deepened – I was just the same as Dáin to you...

“You go and get your Mums yourselves!”

You had spat out the words, clenching your little fists, and it was just too cute... We both could not resist. We went on teasing you, provoking you and you did not disappoint, your body getting tense with anger while your eyes just burned... Oh Thorin...

In the end Dáin leaped at you, pushing you towards me... You lost your balance and fell against me, and I caught you. Of course I caught you, and that was the first time I actually touched you – such a small, nervous little body, jerking away from my touch... I threw my arms around your waist – I liked you, despite my teasing, and the little Dwarflings in the Iron Hills always loved to be lifted in the air, they actually asked for it at home...

But not you. You kicked and struggled and raged, I could feel your hurried breathing and felt your small fingers on my arms, trying to break free from my embrace – you did not want it, you never asked for it and it infuriated you...

I shook my head and tossed you back to Dáin, still teasing you – I was disappointed somehow, you had no sense of humour at all... He was still laughing, catching you and crushing you against his chest.

And then you just lost it. You were so hurt – were far too young still to understand teasing, and had ever been raised among people whose laughter was indeed scarce. To be treated as a small, helpless bundle – it was an unforgivable insult. So you bent and bit Dáin in the arm, and when he let you fall on the ground you recovered instantly and hurled yourself at him, punching him in the waist.

He did not think about his gesture – he just slapped you, but you were so small and tiny... You fell, hitting the ground with your head, and then you were just stretched there. Not moving.

Mahal the fear I felt that day... I have been scared beyond my wits endless times because of you, that game between us started early indeed... I rushed towards you, I turned your head towards us and there was a bruise on your temple, bleeding slightly... I grabbed your shoulders, I could see you were breathing, and was about to brush your cheek when you opened your eyes.

You winced and felt for your head, and for some seconds you looked at me in anguish – what had happened, why was there blood on your fingers... Your eyes actually filled with tears, and as I helped you to recover your body leaned against me – for several seconds you actually gave in, searching for support, instinct reacting before the mind...

But then you remembered – and you were ever resentful, were you, even when the result would do you more harm than good...? So you pulled away from me, and got up, and I had to grab you around the waist to prevent you from falling once more.

But you pushed me away – and then you hit me in the chest. You have done that several times, and it never was because you wanted to fight me. It was to prevent you from breaking down, it actually meant _feel it, feel how bruised I am inside and make amends, just try to make me stop and if you do, maybe I’ll calm down, maybe I’ll lean against you and cry_...

You hit me several times and of course, it did not hurt – what hurt was to look at you, at that desperate look in your eyes, at the way you were biting your lip so as not to cry aloud, at that unique tear that slid down your cheek despite your efforts.

“I hate you. I hate you both. I’ll never talk to you again, and if someone asks me if I have cousins, I will say no, I’ll say they are dead.”

And you did not mean a single word of it, of course. You were just desperately clinging to the last small bits of your shattered pride. I wonder what could have happened, should I have run behind you that day – for you left after that, leaving the hall, fleeing from us once more...

What would have happened, should I have braved your anger and your struggles, be kind to you and helped you out that day? If I had apologized, and taken your hand to lead you to the place where we could clean that graze and talk it all over, would you have forgiven me?

As it was, we just watched you run away. You had almost struck us dumb, with that fierce anger of yours, so burning in one so young... And we felt ashamed beyond measure, and dreaded the consequences of that blow.

But you never breathed a word. We saw you later that day, and your gaze was still clouded, but apart from that nobody noticed anything remiss with you – except your mother of course, she knew that it was unusual for you to stay so calm and quiet.

And quiet you stayed. You had vowed never to talk to us again, and you kept your oath. Every time we would cross your path – and we actually tried, we hated it not to be even with you – you stared at us for a second, shooting a deadly look upon us and turning away.

I am sure you suffered from it. I am sure you felt terribly sad, deep inside, but you were far too proud to acknowledge it.

“Laddie, what’s wrong with you...?”

My brother had bent towards you – you were seated at a table, a quill in hand, working upon a parchment, scribbling down some runes. He threw an arm around your shoulders, brushing back one of your locks – and him you did not push away. I was sitting at the other end of the room with Dáin, we had entered it after you and since you were busy and as such had an excuse for not looking at us, for once you had not left.

Balin touched you and you actually leaned against him, and it made me jealous.

“Nothing...”

Your voice was low, you were still bent upon your work.

“Struggling with the names, laddie?”, Balin asked softly, taking a look at what you had written. “It’s not so easy, that genealogy of ours, lots of names repeating themselves...”

He bent upon the parchment and as he did so, he rubbed your forehead with his temple. And I saw you smile – a swift half-smile that reached your eyes.

“Well, you did not make a single mistake...” Balin said, his voice warm. “Why so sad then, lad? Where has that fire of yours gone, I don’t hear you shout these days and I miss it...”

He was still holding you and I saw you bite your lip. You knew we were listening, you had not forgotten we were there... Neither had Balin.

“Why don’t you go and play with the other lads? Surely that work can wait... It is almost finished anyway, only Dáin and Dwalin’s names missing on that tree...”

 _Mahal – you had actually dared_...

You pulled away from Balin, then, slamming the quill on the table, not caring for the blots of inks it caused.

“They are not missing!”

That little voice of you, so fierce... You had risen to your feet, and grabbed your parchment.

“I won’t write them down! I’ll never write them down!”

Balin cast a hard look upon me then – and I knew I would be up to a close discussion later, well I did not care, he would take your side as usual, it was not even worth talking about it...

“Now there we have you shouting again...”, he said, trying to make you smile, but you were fed up with everyone, especially Fundin’s sons.

“Just make – them – go!!!”

You were shaking with anger then, and that’s when your father came in.

“Thorin!”

He was eying you with stern eyes, and your anger ebbed – he ever had a temper of his own, and frightened me because he looked so calm, not warning others of his outbursts.

“Can you explain that tone of voice?”

He took you by the arm, pulling you closer to him to look at you.

“Balin is kind enough to spend some moments with you, but it doesn’t mean you have any right to speak to him like you just did! Apologize immediately.

\- Thráin...”, Balin threw in, his voice mild, but your father squeezed your shoulder.

“Immediately.

\- I apologize, Balin.”

Your voice was toneless, you were looking at the ground and your father lifted your chin.

“Face people when you talk to them!”

You looked at Balin, and your eyes were full of tears, while my brother’s face was utterly and completely sorry.

“I apologize, Balin.

\- Balin is not your friend, Thorin, he is your elder cousin, the son of a warlord and a guard himself. You don’t shout at him, and you don’t make such a fool of yourself in front of him... or anyone actually.

\- Yes, ‘ _adad_. Sorry, ‘ _adad_.”

Thráin shook his head.

“I don’t know what you are up to, lately, but it has to stop. You don’t want your grandfather to blush at your behaviour, do you?

\- No, ‘ _adad_. Please forgive me...”

Your father grunted – it probably meant he did forgive you, but your face was still discomposed and pale. Thráin had come in to fetch my brother and they soon left... but Balin came back seconds after, pretending he had forgotten something just to whisper those words to you.

“We both know I’m your friend, laddie, do we?”

You threw your arms around him then, resting your face against his shoulder, and then you just sobbed – loud, heartbreaking sobs that also tore my heart. He picked you up – he did as I would have indeed, and he just carried you out of the room, unafraid of your father’s reaction, determined to dry your tears.

I am so sorry I made you cry... I know it does not matter – I know you don’t even remember it, and that you have long forgiven me for my awkwardness and roughness so many years ago, but still... I can still hear you – your grief so loud and unhidden when it did matter so little, and so quiet when everything crumbled...

Have you wept, during those last minutes on that icy Hill? Have you thought of everything you were leaving behind, of the struggles you went through, only to end like this? Have you wept because you thought yourself abandoned and friendless, just like you did that day...?

Oh Thorin – why did I come so late...?


	3. Chapter 3

They are dark, the clothes you pulled on today – dark and stern, so few ornaments on that black jerkin, and that torn chainmail... The shirt is almost plain, baring your throat – you did not care to really shield yourself, did you...?

I know you always believed me to be kind and selfless – you used to say I was the kindest person you knew, that there was something in me that you would never reach, for you were hard, and harsh, and heartless... I can still hear you voicing those words, usually your hand would lie on my arm, and you would have that special half-smile of yours, that reached your eyes but that only gave a glimpse of what you could truly give...

“I am hard, and harsh, and heartless, Dwalin – and a good thing it is...”

And you believed it – I know you did, you were never one to seek for compliments, and neither did you talk idly. What you thought, you believed, and said – at least to me... But you were so wrong, Thorin...

Because the one you called kind and selfless, and holding you now – he cannot suppress that terrible thought in his head: why did you give that shirt to the Halfling? A _míthril_ shirt, a kingly garment, surely you should have kept it for you – it would have protected you... I would not have to look at that terrible wound on your side, covering it with my palm so as to try to atone for that pain and loss you felt...

It would have protected you... But you, even in your madness, you thought of the one who would be helpless and exposed in battle – that little friend of yours, so witty, often ridiculous but so surprising, who had been willing to lay down his life for you, who had left his home for you and had saved your life...

You wanted him shielded. You wanted him protected. You knew you could not always hold him against you, that it was impossible for you to make sure he would not be harmed – you could not shield him with your body, you did not trust yourself in shielding that sunny, small being that surely reminded you of the one you had loved so much, and had not been able to protect...

So you made sure. What you had not been able to give Frerin, you gave to him. A coat as shiny as that warm love that managed to grow in your heart despite grief, madness, exhaustion and despair, and as hard and firm as one of your embraces...

You made sure. My selfless, kind, wonderful friend, who thought himself so hard and heartless, and yet was only ever harsh so as not to acknowledge how broken he felt...

The day I saw you again, after nearly eight years, there were no dark clothes, no stern battle gear – you were dressed in blue and silver, the colors you always favoured in brighter days...

You were tall, Thorin. You had grown, and though there was no real beard on your cheeks yet, only whiskers that had indeed begun to erase the child in that striking face of yours, you looked older. You had seen sorrow already, as an age as young as fourteen – had lost your mother, had seen your father estrange himself from you in his grief.

But you had gained a sister – and it was so plain to see how she had changed you. No more childish outbursts for Thorin, not now that Dís was there, looking up to you – you have long ruled in her heart, do you know that? She loved you both, equally – there were treasures in Frerin that you could not give her, and she might not have said it, but she was as lost as you without him...

But you – the one who had named her, the one who saved her from the Dragon, the one that carried her through the snow, and made sure she kept warm and fed, the one who called her _mamarlûna_ when you thought no one was listening...

You she loved more than anyone – and if I have been _mamarrakhûn_ to you, believe me, Thorin, she was your _mamarrakhûna_. She was never blinded in her love, she knew your darkest parts as well as you did – but the main difference was that unlike you, she was not afraid of them... She loved even these shadows in your soul, because they were part of yourself, and that she could only love you wholly.

That day when I saw you stand against the high walls of Erebor... How I wish this image could have endured, that you could have stayed in that Mountain and ruled it – what a wonderful kingdom you would have preserved, one where Men and Dwarves lived hand in hand... Back then Men had your heart as well, you loved Dale almost as much as Erebor, were always there, fascinated by that door towards the outer world it offered to you...

There you stood, and you were so handsome, I could only try to look for that little fierce Dwarfling, not recognizing him in you. But then I saw your gaze, and there he was – always so unsure, always desperate to fit in and only yearning to run away...

Somehow I knew that you remembered our encounters, and that you were anxious. You did not want us to mention it – it belonged to a time where you had still been a child, a time where being teased and pushed away was the worst cause of grief you could think of... In between she had gone, the mother that had protected you, held you against her and dried your tears – and you had grown, and learnt to keep your feelings for you...

Dáin ever was a rascal. He did not make things easy for you – he let you do all the talking, revelling in the fact that you had broken that passionate oath you had once taken... You welcomed him, but stayed distant, not because you felt above him, but because you did not know how to approach him. Frerin took over, him and Dáin ever were close since that day, and soon they left, both giggling, while you still stood there, against those high walls... And I could see you only yearned to be done with it, to withdraw and close the door behind you...

You always thought Frerin was the dreamer, but you – you had that ability to close yourself in thoughts and just be gone... You barely needed to share those vivid images growing in your head – as long as there were moments of peace where you could go back to that private world of yours, you thought yourself happy...

I did not know how to speak to you either. When Balin introduced me to you once more, I was just standing there – awkward and as shy as you... I’m not sure I even talked, while you desperately tried to welcome me and be polite – it was exhausting you, that business of welcoming, and you were fed up, but still kept up the pretence, always dutiful...

Dís was the one that bound us together. That day already, she stepped up to me and hugged me – and it was so unexpected... How could such a small child spot so many things – know that I was not only feeling awkward with you, I was also feeling almost shy with Balin... He is my brother, and I love him – but somehow I never managed to get as close to him as I was to you, and neither did he... Dís bound us, you and me, but you – you bound Balin and me together. You were the one we shared our concerns about, the one we both followed and loved, each one in his own way.

And Dís saw it – saw how unsure I was as well. Balin ever spoke so warmly of you – you were such a smart, bright boy, Thorin... That knowledge you gathered and carefully kept in your head, that wonderful memory of yours, able to recall maps, figures of stars, complicated sums, and to figure out how a wheel, a lock or a dam worked... What a rough life you have lived, and yet – how often that knowledge has served you unexpectedly... And your eyes would shine then, animation light your face, even in recent days – you revelled in those treasures, your mind expanded and felt properly used, and it made you shine, for a moment...

Of course Balin loved you. And I did not really know how I could take that in – I had lived years without him, and even though we both knew each other perfectly, there were so many differences to be overcome... We could not get adjusted to each other in a few days, and so I was scared and unsure. I did not want to witness him loving you and only be disappointed in me – and of course he never did, but back then I did not know...

Dís hugged me, and it hurt you. You were ever jealous of her love, and I cannot blame you. It hurt you that she chose to whisper a secret to me. Silly you – she only told me how much she loved you, but you, you thought we were laughing about you, and it hurt you – and this time you did not shout or fight, you just sent her away with a glance and cold words.

But I had grown too, and could see clearly through you. You were so lonely, Thorin... I have never understood how no one ever noticed it – not even you. For me it has always been plain and clear. You had your siblings’ love, and my brother’s – and somehow you knew you had your father’s. But the rest, they were only looking up to you or asking things from you, teaching you and making you work, but not sharing your thoughts... You were the heir of Durin, and since you had learned early what it meant – your mind ever was bright and you saw your duties plainly, ever since your thinking days – it made you stand apart from the crowd. And you did not really want it, and yet never even dreamed about complaining.

So in the end I spoke to you. I just teased you, probably, and made sure you knew I was sorry about what had happened, and also that Dís loved you... And how your face brightened then – it still makes me smile, it warms my heart to know that I did you good, that day...

That is when you touched me, of your own free will this time – you pulled me close and embraced me, and it felt as if you had yearned to do that for years... You were smiling, and when Dís joined us I remember you laughed, and it made you look so young and carefree – Thorin, you should have laughed more, it brought us all so much joy...

After that, somehow, we did not really leave each other. Men speak of love at first sight – I think Dwarves know of friendships that last a life long, the flame ever enduring after the first spark... How blessed we both were that day...

Oh yes, I remember that day we also fought, close to each other. That day we were silly enough to follow your father and his company who had set out to track an Orc pack, and were slaughtering them in the Mountains...

Suddenly we were facing them too, and I could feel your shoulders, touching my back, feel your body move almost against mine, knowing I had your back and you had mine, instinctively giving the other what he needed to become dangerous and deadly...

But we were so small, and Dáin had been injured, and suddenly you screamed, looking above my shoulder – and I only remember a breath-taking pain in my breast, as an indistinct mass leaped at me, pinning me to the ground... It was that Warg, that famous Warg that helped to shape your reputation – because you flung yourself at it, you hit it with axe and sword, oblivious to the fact that it could tear you to pieces, only thinking of saving me...

It let go of me, eventually – and I was too bruised and stunned to move, I could only watch it withdraw, and then hurl itself towards you. You who reacted instinctively, throwing your axe with your left hand, hitting it straight in the head – it was dead already when its paws reached your chest, and fell to the side after pinning you to the ground...

Mahal, Thorin...

Mahal...

I was only able to thank you at night. For saving my life, not caring you could have lost yours.

Before, I had to watch you face your father – Thráin had been scared to death, as we all had, but I think he saw how desperately you had tried to call for his attention in giving in to our silly idea... He was mad at you, but even more at himself – his little boy had grown and did not really know where he stood, and he had left you to your trainings and your thoughts, following his own brooding ideas...

Back then of course I did not understand it. I could only watch him – terrified by this outburst, as he pinned you to the rock, hitting your face, twisting your wrist... I wanted to yell at him to stop, but my breath was still short and somehow I did not dare, you had already spoken to him, you were already facing him with burning eyes – it was between you and him...

And he also made you take back your axe – he wanted to teach you a lesson that day, I think he would have let you be sick in front of all of us, so as to make sure you would never do such a thing again... But you did not give in – you were bruised, but pride was the only thing you could still cling to, and so you pulled that axe out of the Warg’s skull and wiped it, facing us all, and what a challenge there was in your eyes...

You cried afterwards. Don’t deny it. I was looking at you, every now and then – you were walking behind us, kept your face low and did not make a sound, but you were crying. Oh Thorin – I saw you cry afterwards as well, and somehow, as the years would pass and your sorrows indeed become heavier, your tears would yet become quiet and quieter.

Silent tears – those are terrible indeed. But the worst is when you don’t even manage to cry, when there are no tears to relieve you – and this you knew. Dark was the day when you had every reason to cry and did not. Even darker were the days that followed...

But that day, no – you cried. And you must have made amends with your father afterwards, somehow, because when I saw you afterwards in your room, your face was rested and at peace. You had been excluded from the banquet, and so we brought the banquet to you – Dís and me first, and then Dáin and Frerin, and Balin afterwards...

I still remember entering your room with your sister – it was dark and we had had to light the lamps close to your bed to take a look at you. You were stretched on your bed, not even under the blankets, simply lying there, your face resting on your forearm – a young warrior who had fought that Warg indeed, but lost his battle against sleep...

I could see that bruise on your cheek – I still struggled to understand Thráin’s outburst, it had even startled my father and though I had had to get through one of the most memorable lectures of my life, he had not hit me... He never hit me – he somehow never needed to, his silence and coldness ever were enough to punish me.

How happy you were when you saw us – and what a beautiful evening it was then! Balin told us stories, and we ate until dawn, until we were too tired to talk and eat...

That room – it had been your father’s as a child, and you had moved into it two years ago, when it had been decided by your grandfather that eighteen was an age where a Dwarf had to learn to sleep alone, and to think less about his toys... As if you had ever had much time to play – cruel Thrór... And pardon me – but weak Thráin, cruel Thráin to make you leave the room you had shared with Frerin, for that large room that was indeed beautiful, but so stern for so young a child...

No toys in your room indeed. There was your bed – a two-sized bed, so huge... Curtains hanging down from the bedposts, but you did not like them and had tied them along the posts, you wanted to keep that view towards the window – you wanted the moonlight to enter that room, it was getting so dark at night...

There was a big desk as well, covered with parchments, quills, books – so much work, so many things to learn and to do... There were maps pinned on your walls, not only of Erebor’s realm, of Middle Earth, and sky-maps. Sky-maps especially – you had to learn to use the stars as well, to find your road, and you enjoyed those lessons dearly...

There was the place where you stored your weapons, and your training clothes – not only the tunics or the boots, your chainmail, the leather bands that shielded your wrists, and your armguards. There was a carpet, worn out and small, right in that corner, and I know you must have thrown yourself upon it many times, thrusting your weapons on the chest, getting rid of your boots and just lying there on the ground, panting, not wanting to bathe yet.

Happy in your own way.

But what I liked most was the small table close to your bed. There you had put a colorful lamp – and there was a book-pile here that made me smile when I first looked at it. No patterns of stars, no lessons about iron and silver... These were travelling diaries, books that spoke of landscapes and that showed me where your mind was wandering indeed, when you had enough time to find back to yourself...

You treasured small objects from Dale, as well... Small wooden boxes Men had painted, and in which you would put whatever it was that fascinated you – pebbles you would gather along the riverbanks, or marbles... You ever liked those toys of Men – it made you smile to see them so fascinated by small pearls of glass, and you enjoyed the sound of it...

You asked me to stay with you, every night of the last week of our stay. You did not want to lose a precious hour with me – you were so sad to know I would leave, as well as Dáin, you did not want us to leave, wanted us to stay with you forever...

Oh Thorin – once your friendship was given it was given fully...

So we did it. Every night I’d come, and both of us would talk for hours, seated on that old carpet of yours, leaning against the iron chest shielding your weapons, and then sharing that huge bed of yours – hah! It was big enough to hold us both, sure enough...

The second night you did something strange. I had not noticed there was a big mirror in your room, facing the window, on the left side of the bed. I had not noticed, because when I would come to you at night it would already be covered – and at day we had better things to do than to stay in your room, had we not?

That night however it was there, and I was gazing at it, absentmindedly, when I suddenly saw you getting out of the bed again, pushing back your blanket.

“Wait...”, you said, and then you threw a large, dark fabric upon the mirror, shielding it from our view, before getting back in bed, your bare feet noiseless on the stone ground.

I lifted my head, resting it on my hand, arching my eyebrows.

“What was that about...?”

It was late already – we had both agreed we would sleep, and I had not expected it would result in seeing you roaming your room, covering mirrors with dark clothes like a wizard...

You looked at me and somehow your gaze was shy.

“Nothing... I don’t like seeing myself in that looking glass when I try to sleep, that’s all...”

You had turned your back on the mirror, facing me instead, and I could feel you were holding back something – that behaviour of yours was strange, almost childish, did not fit in with what I knew about you...

“Why?”

I had asked quietly, and had to wait a while for your answer. We were both wrapped in our blankets, turned towards each other, and for a minute the only sound was our quiet breathing. But then you spoke, softly.

“Dwalin, do you believe in... in things that cannot exist?”

I frowned – you were indeed acting strange that night...

“Well... If they cannot exist – I would not know... I don’t understand... What do you mean?”

You bit your lip – you looked like a child again doing so, your hair unbraided, wrapped in that blanket, your voice hardly above a whisper.

“Don’t laugh at me...

\- I won’t...”

I extended my hand and pushed you in the chest, gently.

“Out with it, Thorin. I want to sleep.”

You smiled, and then you came closer – sometimes you would do things like that indeed, nestling against me, searching for my arms, like Frerin would have done with you. I am a few summers older and long gone are the years where it showed, but while we were both children it still mattered. For a few years I had you looking up at me – me, your tall, strong friend who was probably taller, but in no ways stronger than you...

“Alright... Three years ago, when Frerin and I went to Dale, we stayed late... Frerin was playing with the children in the market, and I was listening to the Men. There was an old woman there, she... she was telling stories. Stories that were not real – they were laughing at her and teasing her but... She told about a magic mirror, a mirror that would become shiny at night, a mirror where... She said that the dead could come back through this mirror – if their death had indeed been painful and sudden... She said it was a tall, rounded, silver mirror with many carvings, just like that one...”

You shuddered slightly and I could see then that you were frightened. Your voice had remained even, but I could sense fear in your voice and it made me hold back the playful reply I had been about to voice...

“And... I did not really think about it. Not until I got that room and – it took me a while to notice that mirror, but once I did... I don’t know... It is silly, I know...”

You smiled at me – but there was sadness in your eyes.

“You have been covering that mirror every single night?”, I asked, looking at you earnestly, and after a while you nodded.

“For two years, ever since that room is yours?”

A shy nod again.

“But Thorin... Who on earth do you expect to get in through that mirror so as to haunt your nights? There are no Dwarven-ghosts, surely... Men are just inventing such stories because they like a good thrill every now and then...

\- But she said... She said those who died young and unexpectedly – and it happened so close, not in that wing but on the same floor... And – _‘adad_ ’s room is far away. They are all far away, that room is the furthest of the whole wing...”

Such a tiny voice... How frightened you must have been, gazing at that covered mirror with open eyes, afraid to see your mother’s ghost coming out of its shiny surface...

“When I cover it I don’t think about it, not really... It helps me fall asleep...”

I pulled you closer then – I was feeling so sorry for that small Dwarfling who had been sleeping here for months, in a room way too big for you, dwelling upon your mother’s premature death, not able to share your fears with anyone...

“I don’t believe in ghosts...”, I said softly – and I was telling the truth. “I think our souls leave this world once dead. And should the dead be able to interact with us... I do not think she would come back to haunt you. She would never do such a thing to you, would she...? She would not want you to be afraid of her, and to stay awake at night...”

You nodded, you were still holding me tightly and gave a small sigh.

“I must sound so silly to you...”

I shook my head.

“’Course not. I used to be frightened at night, too... I used to imagine there was some creature hiding under my bed or in my cupboard... I was so glad I could hear my father snore in the next room – this way I was sure not to be alone...

\- Yes... I used to like it too, when I slept with Frerin, I liked to hear him breathe... I was never afraid when he was with me... But don’t tell him – don’t tell him about the mirror, please...

\- Never. Who do you take me for?

\- I don’t know...”

I could hear the silent smile in your words and gave you another gentle shove.

“Hey, watch your thoughts, I can almost hear them!

\- Alright. What do I take you for, then?

\- A big blundering oaf, of course... A chattering fool...”

You shook your head, and I could hear you laugh softly.

“No. You don’t get it at all.”

You shifted in the bed, resting your head again upon your pillow but keeping your arm entwined with mine.

“So what? Just spit it out and let us sleep, you plague...”

You squeezed my arm then, and I could see your bright gaze as you looked at me, and your smile, before you closed your eyes.

“My friend, of course. You _oaf_.”

And that last word you said so softly – it was no insult, it was fond and full of warmth, and as gentle as you could be. I huffed and pushed you again, and we both laughed, before giving in to sleep at last, and Thorin – it was one of the first nights we spent together and somehow it linked us, shaping all the nights that would follow...

Even that one. Of course I am your friend, you plague – the companion of my many nights, on the road and even in the Mountains... So many nights we spent exactly like this, your head in my lap, and mine in yours, while we would relieve each other of our guard...

I wonder – did you cover that mirror again afterwards? You did not mention it – it has left our thoughts long ago, there were so many dreadful events that came in between... But I think you did not... I think you felt more confident in your room as you grew, that it somehow fitted you in the end, and that the mirror always reminded you of our nights...

Or that is what I like to think. I do not know, Thorin. A chattering fool – oh yes, that is what I must seem indeed, but talking helps, you know... I hold you against me, and somehow to think of those past days – it helps, it will give me the strength to move, later, to take off those grim, blood-stained clothes that speak of your ending, and to dress you for your last journey.

But not yet, my dear friend. Let us just stay like this for a while, the light is low and I am tired, it has been a terrible day and I actually don’t know if I am dreaming or talking... I will take care of you, I promise... I will bathe you, and clothe you, and then I will bid you farewell...

But not yet. Not just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who read that fic, do not wonder if there are so few explanations about the events mentionned in that chapter. They allude to a fic of mine told from Thorin's point of view, called 'The King of Carven Stone', and this chapter has been a sort of exercice, trying to write about them from Dwalin's perspective.
> 
> Not sure I managed it though - perhaps this fic has actually very little interest for those who read my other fic... That one I'll get back to soon, I promise - I missed Dwalin while writing my last chapter, but now I miss Thorin :). Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

You are so cold. Your skin is icy, and I know my warmth won’t be able to fight it – not this time... You don’t need me anymore, you don’t care for the cold, you don’t shiver, you are lying so still in my arms – your body is turning to stone at last...

You used to be so warm, though... How often have you slept against me, because there was no true shelter, our bodies the only screen against the hard, ruthless wind... You would dismount from your pony, or simply stop and put down your burden when we were travelling on foot – frown as the cold would bite your cheeks and whip your hair, pushing it back against your chainmail.

“The second watch is yours...”, you would say – and there was seldom room for discussion.

You were never one to lie down first, not you... Not even tired to the bone, you would still feel obliged to make sure others had their rest first. Sometimes there was no fire, not even food – the only thing to be done was trying to sleep while the other was making sure it was safe to rest...

But on those cold nights you would lie down against me – not closing your eyes, always watchful, always wary, yet accepting warmth as a prelude to sleep. I never told you, but I have always felt at peace with you in my arms – not because I needed you, silly, I was neither scared nor cold... But because I knew that while I held you, you were safe.

Of course I would be the one holding you – it had always been like this, ever since we had been forced to grow up, and even as kids... Back then you would still face me as you nestled against me, you would look at me and then bury your face in my shoulder – still smaller, and too young to feel awkward... But after war – after war nothing was simple, nothing was plain, and you thought yourself obliged to chose, either facing me or letting me embrace you...

What was it you were afraid to show me...?

That you were not sleeping, even when your watch was over, that you gazed at night’s shadows because you did not want to dream? That you laid down your guard, knowing I had your back, and that your face was wet with silent tears? That eventually your features relaxed, showing how young you still were – that despite the crushing weight of what you had been through, you had barely left boy’s age...?

I never slept while you were watching – never while I was holding you. Those nights where I would rest my head on your lap, yes... And the others where we would not even lie close also, but not those nights where your back was resting against my chest, and my arms circling your waist, feeling you breathe softly.

Those nights I knew you needed me, and I knew exactly when you would finally fall asleep, give in to exhaustion and relax – because your body grew warmer then, warming up my chest, and my arms, my own heat finally reaching your skin...

Dís and the lads, they said the same, joking about it, even with you... Kíli would climb on your lap, hugging your chest, waiting for you to embrace him – and you always would.

“Ready?”, you would ask, in that soft tone of voice you had for those you loved most.

And the little rascal would nod, excitedly, resting his head against your shoulder, wanting everyone to witness it... Not even a minute afterwards, it never failed, he raised his face and looked at you, his eyes shining.

“You feel it, uncle?”

And you would bend towards him, always, rubbing your forehead against his.

“I do, _bunnanun_...

\- We are warming each other up!”

The lad was beaming, and you smiled too, but you were always mindful not to forget Fíli who would be watching you, silently, not daring to come closer.

“Get down, laddie, let me try for that other little rogue...”

Kíli would slide down, running towards his brother who would advance, almost shyly, yet still yearning for your embrace – and you did hold him tightly, lifting him on your knee, closing your arms around him...

“Now that is a tough one...”, you would say, gently pinching Fíli’s waist, and waiting for that little half-smile you never failed to summon. “A very hard one...”

But Fíli smiled wholly, eventually, and so did you, once warmth spread between your bodies where they touched – the lad always looked so surprised...

“It is working...”, he would whisper, and you would hold him even closer.

“Of course it works, _bunnel_. It always works.”

And it did indeed – a silent proof that you could love, and recognize those you held dear, your heart warming up until it reached your skin.

I remember days though, and watchful nights, where that heat was not welcome – where your body was burning and where I felt so helpless, watching you fade away, your small body consumed by fever, so tiny and weak...

Fire...

I thought I would go mad with anguish, the day we heard about Erebor’s fall – knowing that the Dragon came, and that you were all there, Balin of course, but you as well, you and Frerin, and Dís, and your father...

We only heard about it two days afterwards – you must have been on the road already, you probably were walking, desperately trying to look assured, that wound on your forearm burning and reminding you of everything you had lost...

I told you – I did not think it over, I just left the Iron Hills, my small bag packed, shouldering my axe and fastening my sword on my belt. I was so silly, so stupid and young – it was so clear for me that I would go there and find you, whatever might be on the road trying to stop me... I just wanted to be at your side...

But of course, my father found out – he knew me so well, and I have always been such a predictable Dwarf, have I not? Not an inch of originality in me – Dwalin the big, strong warrior, always going after you... You, with whom I spent almost all my life, and still not able to predict what you would do – Thorin...

So my father got me back, and I can still hear him shouting at me – not hitting me, but shaking me fiercely, his brown eyes bright in his kind face.

“You cannot just head out in the wild like this – you would only get killed! Others have left this world for less than that!”

My mother was not as gentle – I loved her dearly, she was everything a mother could indeed be, but she would be hard where my father was soft. She was the one hitting me – only once, slapping my face, and it only meant she loved me and could not bear to lose me.

I don’t even remember how we were able to know that half of Erebor had managed to escape – I just remember the day Balin arrived, with Dagur, both spent, both shivering, exhausted and famished, yet so determined to reach us...

“They are out there, heading for the Hills... Meet them – bring supplies, there are many wounded, and everyone is starving...”

Yet still I could not go... I could only watch Náin react swiftly, taking half of the guards with him, riding out in the snow mounted on huge boars... Those hours of waiting – I was praying to Mahal that you would still be alive, all of you...

We watched out anxiously with Dáin, and when the guards came back we were ready... Or rather we thought ourselves ready, but we were not – those poor drawn faces, those hollow eyes, those shivering bodies, the soft moans we could hear all around us, nothing had prepared us for that sight...

Náin had stayed in the snow – leading the rest of you on, and Dáin and me we searched for you, called your names, but could not find you...

And suddenly we saw two small frames, huddled against each other – one leaning against the other, and I just remember the faint glitter of Dís’ tiara against Frerin’s shoulder. She was unconscious, so small, and he was hardly better, but he still tried to hold her, his face pale and thin, his grey eyes bright and his teeth chattering.

“Frerin!”, Dáin called out, and he lifted his head, reaching out for him.

“She’s so cold...”, he whispered, and my cousin looked at Dís, huddled in Frerin’s arms – she was still breathing, but her eyes were closed.

“Find them dry clothes, and something warm to eat, lad...”

The voice belonged to an old Dwarven-lady who was sitting next to them – I remember her, her white hair striking, so abundant, her braids so neatly woven, almost like marble sculptures...

Your Itô...

“He is still out there...”, she said, looking at me with those black eyes she had, and there was a savage love in her voice I did not understand at first.

She was too weak to help us, and we fetched our mothers – mine took care of Dís while Dáin and his mother looked after Frerin... Small, terrified Frerin, gazing at Dís, too weak to cry – Dáin picked him up like a child, wrapping his arms around his neck, letting him anchor his legs around his waist... My cousin never was a tender one, but with Frerin it was different – I think he saw instantly that your brother only yearned for you, but that you both had been broken by that terrible exile...

I brought a blanket and hot soup to Itô – I was no use to my cousins, our mothers were already doing everything they could, I rather sat close to her, sharing her watch.

Because she was watching. Waiting for you, her black gaze never leaving the main entrance.

“Mahal bless you, boy...”, she said when I wrapped her up in the warmest blanket I could find – she would not take her dress off, and she was not even shivering, but I still worried about her, for she was old and tiny-boned...

We both watched out for you, a whole night and a day...

And when the doors finally opened, when the rest of the Dwarves that had left Erebor finally entered the Iron Hills, reaching shelter after nine weeks of starvation and hardship, that is when Itô’s body began to shake.

“Find him, boy... He will be among the last – look for a dark jerkin, with a silver belt, and a blue tunic under the chainmail, he won’t have taken them off...”

How I searched for you, then... There were only grown-up Dwarves there, Dwarves and some Dwarrowdams as well, but no child, no small, swift frame, no blue eyes to meet my gaze... It took me a while to find you at last, because your father was shielding you with his body.

Thráin had sat on the ground, and you were leaning against his chest – he had wrapped his arms around your waist, keeping you close, he had even raised his knees, trying to keep you warm... And you let him hold you – you had no strength left to do anything but sit, and gaze at what was before you with dull, hollow eyes, so weak, so tired...

I still remember the expression on your face when I cried out your name – you flinched slightly, and then you looked up. And somehow you managed to break free from your father’s embrace, or perhaps he freed you, feeling you stir at last as you got up to meet me...

“Dwalin...”

I can still hear that whisper – your voice toneless and faint, and yet, how much strength you must have summoned to say my name...

And I still recall our embrace – your small body pressing itself against mine, desperately, your arms clinging around my chest and your face buried in my shoulder... You were so thin my fur coat could hold us both, and I soon wrapped it around you – you were shivering, sliding slowly against me, I had to catch you around the waist to hold you upright, and you were so cold...

I was so worried, you looked so wretched, the ghost of the Dwarfling I had known, but you could only whisper your siblings’ names, yearning to know that they were safe. And safe they were, already recovering, but you...

You barely seemed to know what to do with that spoon, with that plate I had made sure to fill so as to bring some warmth into your body – after a few mouthfuls your face got even paler, and suddenly you were vomiting.

I cursed myself – the food had probably been too rich, it was obvious to see that you had not eaten for days, no wonder you were being sick... But then you threw up water, and bile, and still went on retching, while your body was shaking, shaking so badly I had to hold you, wrap my arms around your waist and feel the terrible spasms that were forcing you to bend, retching on and on – even when there was nothing left to throw up...

That is when I understood you were ill, really ill, and that I had to fetch help quickly.

But you did not let me – you clutched my fingers with surprising strength, your face drenched in sweat, so pale...

“I am fine... I feel better...”

I shook my head – a child could see you were not, you were raving, exhaustion and fever getting the better of you, yet still determined to keep me at your side. I held you when you bent once more, your small body almost hanging in my arms – and then you threw up blood.

Blood, Mahal...

Splashing on the ground, proof that you were everything but fine – and you stared at it, aware of what it meant... and then you took your leave. You simply left, turning rigid and then sinking softly in my arms, your eyes still open but not seeing me anymore.

I screamed then – I really thought I had lost you that day... But you were breathing, and when we were finally able to stretch you on my bed, beginning to take off your wet clothes, you moaned, softly, and shivered as we stripped you off your jerkin.

You were so small... So small on my bed, I could hardly believe it was you lying there – you I had seen face that Warg, you I could still remember running, fighting with me, smiling in my arms while I told you about my home...

The more clothes we took off, the less of you there seemed to be... That thin frame lying there – it could not be you, not that famished boy that was only bones, standing out sharp under your stained skin... I do not know how you managed to carry the weight of your chainmail – you probably had not had the strength to take it off, it was plain you had worn it for days and days, and it shielded you from cold, but still...

Gróin bent upon you – not Oín this time, he was resting, he could not go on, he had strived so hard as well, it was his father who came to you that day... And I took your hand in mine – it was so tiny, so fragile, and hot... It should not have been burning like that...

“Has he thrown up much?”, he asked, feeling for your belly – if you could still call it like that, it had shrunk to almost nothing...

I nodded – I was still terrified, but Gróin only said: “It must have grazed his stomach...”

You winced as he touched you – and then you moaned softly, trying to sit up. He turned you on the side, seemingly unmoved, and I could see more blood trickle from your mouth, blood and bile you could not even spit out anymore...

“Easy, lad...”, he said, wiping your mouth, and I saw your eyelids quiver.

You tried to move, to raise a hand to your lips, but it fell down on the sheets and you opened your eyes, your gaze unfocused.

“Keep it... rationed...”, you whispered. “Balin...”

He was there, of course... He had barely recovered from his terrible journey through the snow, and I was still struggling to recognize him – he did not talk about the Dragon, not about the journey, not even about you, staying close to facts, and keeping his thoughts for him...

He had seen terrible things, my brother... Now I know it – he had seen Erebor fall, had been injured as its walls fell down, had seen Thráin crumble in front of him and witnessed his madness, had listened to your grandfather’s cold words...

And he also had to witness the terrible ordeal you went through – forced to take your father’s position, desperately trying to fill that missing leader’s place... Afterwards we talked, afterwards there would be sentences, every now and then, so now I know... I know his heart ached every time he saw you pull on your chainmail to look harder, your braids thin and firm and your chin lifted – seemingly hard and proud, but so lost.

Balin had no children. Somehow he never felt the need for it. Because in a way, you were the closest thing to children he ever had – you, and Frerin, and Dís... He would watch you go, in those villages of Men, the smallest among all the Dwarves going, while he would stay with your father, trying to soothe him, trying to make him find his way towards you again...

And his own private ray of sunshine was seeing you come back – your face drawn, often stained with soot, and your body weary... He was so proud of you...

But now you had come back and you were not walking, not smiling at him or searching for his embrace. You were lying there, shivering on the blankets while sweat was beading on your brow and your chest, calling out for him, speaking of things only both of you could truly understand...

That day he stroked your hair, his hand feeling for your cheek, and you turned your face towards him, yearning for his touch, any touch...

“Don’t leave me...”, you whispered, and Balin shook his head.

“I won’t...”, he said – but there were tears in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks and falling on his own chest, and somehow I understood, I understood that he had left you there in the snow, knowing you were already struggling, knowing you could barely hold on...

I would face him in boundless anger days after – but not then. Back then, we could only think of you, trying to pull you back towards us...

We bathed you – actually we did not make you leave the bed, we just took your clothes off and washed your body while you were lying there, and then Balin removed your hair claps, undid your braids softly, and washed your hair, his hands stroking your locks, gently wiping your forehead that was so hot, burning despite the water...

I did not really look at your body that day – not the private parts, Balin took care of them, Balin had known you as a baby and to him you were exactly this, the little lad he loved so much, ever since you had trusted him wholeheartedly because he had taken enough time to try to understand you...

I looked at your face, and it was so thin and worn-out... I looked at your arms, my fingers stroked that silvery scar running upon your left forearm, and the small burn I could see in your right palm... And your knees, they were bruised as well – your legs must have given way under you so many times in the snow... Wherever I looked, I could see traces proving how hard you hard strived, and how little you had thought about yourself...

In the end there you were, stretched on my bed, your hair wet and unbraided, dressed in a light tunic that was too wide for you, and made you look even smaller. Your eyes were closed, the touch of water against your skin had soothed you – you were asleep, and your hand in mine was hot and dry.

I never thought you would come back to me in that state...

I had tears in my eyes actually – and Balin looked at me. His face was almost as pale as yours, and he still had deep rings under his eyes. He laid his hand upon my forearm and I did not shake him off, but I did not speak.

“You should let him rest... and take some rest as well...”, he said gently, but I shook my head.

I would not leave you. I would not make his mistake.

“Exactly. In my bed...”, I answered, stubbornly.

And then I just stretched myself at your side. I did not need to push you away to have enough space – I kept your hand in mine, holding your arm against my chest, made sure the blankets covered you because I saw you shiver, determined to keep watch for you.

I did not turn when Balin covered me with another blanket, his move gentle and silent. I still feel shame, somehow, for the way I treated him – allowing myself to judge him, although I would not have known which decision to take had I been in his place...

But he did not judge me. Him, my father, my mother – nobody asked me to leave your side. They dragged an armchair in my room, and sat down next to us, taking turns and resting in between, while I stayed close, holding your hand.

“Dra... gon...”

I had been foolish enough to fall asleep – and it took me a while to understand what was happening, why my chest felt so hot, and who was speaking – letting out the words in a hoarse, broken voice, almost a moan...

You had turned in your sleep, your body had curled up against my chest – and you were so hot, Thorin, your skin was burning, your tunic and blankets were drenched, and your hair was soaked, wet locks plastered against your neck...

“Dra... gon...”

I jerked up – looking at you in fear, and I did not like what I was seeing. You were struggling to breathe, your free hand kept searching for the hem of your shirt, trying to remove it, as if it had been a rock crushing your chest.

The weak point was always the chest, with you...

Somehow that was the only way to bring you down – hitting you full in the chest, be it with weapons or with words... I think you had been ill for several days on the road, but had failed to notice the first signs... You did not really care for yourself anymore – and when I saw the way you sagged against Frerin once you were finally reunited, I understood why.

He had left your side, for several weeks, had not been able to understand you had had to be harsh, and even mean, so that everyone could keep walking... And it had broken your heart.

It is so strange, is it not, the way he always ruled in yours... So strange and sad...

He was the only one you ever were fully open with – he was able to discuss everything with you, he was never shy or afraid to ask... Oh, I know, I might have looked just as close to you, but I was not. Not like Frerin.

Because his goodness, and that sharp mind he had – they made you see what you loved and admired most, he truly was your equal but you placed him even above, your little _kudzaduz._.. He was your treasure, your pride, someone whose soft embrace always meant home to you, without need for words...

He was the only one able to make you go north when you had planned to go south... Anything but losing his love, anything but seeing him turn away from you once more – and he never used it to do you harm, he loved you just as much, and you deserved it...

But there on the road, you both went through your first and only real rift.

Frerin was still so young, and turning from you after your faced your father, it was his way to get closer to Thráin again. But you... You stood alone in the snow, without his smile, without his warmth – and it broke your heart. It broke your heart so thoroughly that you did not even really want to go on... and no, I was not there, but I know you, and I know what happened once he left your side, so I can guess...

You just held on because of Dís. And for your people – as always.

I know you did not care, once you began to shiver, once you felt the first pain in your chest... The only thing that mattered was getting Frerin and Dís safe, you... you were gone.

You went down with all hands, because you had lost your sun – oh Thorin...

Back then though, I did not understand it so clearly... I was so worried about you that it took me days to notice that the person missing at your side was your father – and that something was wrong, because you did not call for him, or for your family...

You did not ask for anybody...

But still you yearned for touch – the only thing that could calm you down while you turned and thrashed around in the blankets was to stroke your skin... Balin began it, wiping sweat away from your forehead and stroking your cheek – and you looked at him, you actually looked at him, your gaze so bright...

“I cannot go home...”

He simply went on caressing your cheek, and it soothed you, somehow – your breathing calmed down for a while, and Balin helped me change your clothes, and your sheets, while you let us handle you, your eyes closed and your small body yielding.

But in the morning you were worse.

This time you were not talking – your breath was hurried, entering your lungs with a wheezing sound, and you tried to cough without managing the strength to do so, we could see your struggles and the pain on your face...

My father was with me this time, and he gently pulled up your tunic. There was a sheen of sweat on your skin, but what was even worse to witness was the way your body desperately tried to give you more air: the muscles between your ribs, and of your neck, they all tensed and strived, while you wore yourself out...

What a fierce battle you were fighting, and how helpless we felt at your side... Your heart was racing in your chest, I could feel it against my fingers when I laid a hand against your breast – touching you because I did not know how else to reach you...

My father pulled your tunic down again and I could see his gaze darken. He looked at my mother silently, and my heart sunk, while tears burned my eyes again.

“Fetch Oín, Fundin...”, my mother said softly. “He knows the boy since childhood...”

And she was the one sitting down next to you, my mother... You did not really know her, back then, but she knew you – and she recognized your own mother in you, as well as your father. She loved you, Thorin – she never resented it when I left her to join you, and believe me, she did not resent you for all the deaths that happened afterwards, even though you always thought the contrary...

She was a mother, and you were a child.

So she took you in her arms, leaning against the wall, and sitting you up against her breast, circling your waist – exactly as your father had done. She held you upright so that it could be easier to breathe for you, and she stroked your chest, gently, her palm caressing your skin, even when you began to cough, even when your whole body shook while searing waves went through your lungs...

And somehow you gave in – the pain on your face was still plain, but her touch did you good, I could see it, could feel your fingers relax in mine even though you still struggled...

“Now, now, sweetheart...”, she whispered, holding you close. “My wonderful, lovely little boy, my sweetheart...”

There was no difference between you and me, for her... There is no difference between children for a mother when they are suffering... She called you the same words she had used for me, long ago, when I had come back to her crying, or when I had lain ill – it had happened rarely enough, but I still remember her soft voice, promising love and shelter...

And you – you shivered slightly at her touch, and your body responded, leaning even more into her embrace, your coughing ebbing... Your breath was still hurried, but you looked calmer. You were still hot, your cheeks burning, sweat running along your temple, but you stopped struggling for a while.

When Oín came and saw you leaning against her, I remember he cursed, balling his fists. He was thin and exhausted, his black gaze burning with a rage I could not understand – he had wandered through a nightmare, lost so many wounded and ill... Had helped to save so many, but still felt defeated...

“Mahal, lad...”

He sat down on the bed, and Thorin – I swear he ran his hand through your hair. Not stroking it, not Oín, but pulling it back so as to see your face with a gentle move that was indeed unlike him – but you were offering such a pitiful sight, backed up against my mother, your whole body trying to reach for air...

He shook his head, still looking at you. And then he pulled himself together.

He reached out for you, leaning you against his own chest, and listened to your breath and heart with a wooden tube I had seen his father use before. He felt for your forehead, and backed you up again against my mother.

“Is he able to drink?”, he asked, and my mother nodded.

“If we bring it to him sip by sip, he does...  

\- Then go on. He needs water, and we have to make that fever get down somehow. I will give you some herbs – you mix it with his water, and try to make him drink it.”

He looked at you once more – you coughed again, tried at least, and Oín frowned.

“His lungs are inflamed – full of slime. He has to get it out...”

Your breath had hurried once more, but still you did not manage to cough. You just sat there, in my mother’s arms, so weak, your lips half-parted, your lungs wheezing... and Oín shook his head once more.

“Mahal...”

He took you in his arms again. He held you exactly as my mother, putting a hand against your chest, resting the other against your back so as to steady you. He watched you closely, and when you took your next breath and let it out, he pressed his hand against your chest, hard enough to make me wince.

You moaned softly, and let out a weak sound that could have been a cough – and Oín went on like this, until you coughed for real, until there was no mistaking that hollow sound, until he was able to wipe your mouth because you were spitting out some of the slime that was choking you...

“Right, laddie... You go on like this...”

He held you and made you cough for several minutes – and though you moaned, ever once in a while, it did you some good, you could breathe a little better, he was helping you freeing your lungs. But it was also exhausting, and after a while you sagged against him, unable to bear the strain anymore.

“Enough, lad...”, Oín said softly, feeling your shiver against him. “I will come back later... You just sit up and rest, right? You are doing just fine...”

Your eyes were open but you did not see us. You were just breathing heavily against him, your eyelashes wet with tears exertion had brought up – oh Thorin... It broke my heart to see you like this, it really did... I never could bear to see you suffer...

Your lips moved, and it took us a while to understand the word you were mouthing. You said it so softly, not weeping, not even complaining, and yet it summed up all your feelings, and it made our throat tighten, even Oín’s, still holding you against him.

“ _’Amad_...”

I never heard you voice it again, afterwards. And I know you do not remember saying it – and would you, you would have denied it. But that day you called out for her, because you could not bear it anymore, because it was just too hard, because you were so ill, your chest hurting and your skin burning...

You wanted your mother – as nearly every child does when it is in pain. And you did not care that she was dead, you just wanted her.

My mother took you in her arms again, after that. Held you, knowing she could not replace her, but that she could try, try to soothe you, give you a bit of what you yearned for... And she wept, when you leant your face against her neck and closed your eyes, still shivering, still breathing fast, but she held you, stroking your back.

And I wept as well, wiping my cheeks fiercely – I knew you never complained, I knew you never called out for help... You did not even reach out for people, never asked for embraces – loved them, but did not seek them out, were too shy, too proud for that...

That little word – it just meant you could not go on anymore...

So I braced myself and was ready, when it became clear that you were losing that battle your body had become unable to fight. Strangely enough you did not look that bad – your breathing had slowed down, you were not coughing, you were not thrashing around...

But the cool shreds of fabric we were applying against your forehead became hot as embers within minutes, and your skin, Thorin... You were covered in sweat, and your skin I remembered as slightly tanned, speaking of warmth, in the forge or under the sun – it had become so pale, veined with marble shades...

I have almost seen you die, that day... That day at least, I have been there...

I was holding you against me, this time. I had your back against my chest, and my arms around your waist – exactly like I did, later, on those cold and forlorn nights, except that this time, I was sitting.

And she came then, your Itô...

Somehow she had got past my parents – perhaps they knew there was no way to stop her, and after all, she was a lady of high-rank, a _batshûna_ who had lost husband and sons to the Drakes, and still fought...

I tried to get up and bow – I owed her that respect, but she instantly raised her hand, not wanting me to move, not wanting to stir you up, although you were long past feeling moves around you.

She looked at you – and I will never forget that black gaze, never, Thorin...

For a while, you see, I saw her as she was, deep inside – I could see that Dwarrowlass she had been, her hair not white, probably, but raven black as yours, her face smooth, her cheekbones chiselled under her collar beard, and her eyes burning...

She had loved, it was plain to see – and it was also plain to witness she did not love easily.

I never asked anything about her, I just know she had found her One, long ago, and lost him... But I still think that, had she been younger, had you been older – in short, had you grown up together and not met only then, when her life was closing in and yours only beginning, that you would have found each other.

Because that gaze, Thorin... That gaze, and yours also, every time her name would be mentioned, your hand feeling for the ring she gave you... That fierce love that was burning in your eyes as well, and that could so easily be mistaken for anger, causing you to hit Lóni when he dared making fun of her gift...

It spoke of what could have been, and also of what was there – and Itô loved you, as a shield-maiden loves her King, while you loved her as the lost wanderer loves the Mountain, appearing in the distance to show him the road once more...

She did not sit down – she stood standing, facing you, her thin frame upright, her black gaze never leaving your face. She looked at you as if she wanted to remember every line of your face, brand it into her mind as we would carve silver...

And then she extended her hand and touched your chest. She simply laid her palm against your breast, still looking at you.

“ _Ubnad_...”, she whispered, and I could feel you stir at that soft word – it was so strange, you had not moved for hours, and here she came, her touch reminding you that you had not turned to stone yet...

“ _Itiddin, ubnadê. Nekhmi_. _Itiddine_.”

And you gave such a sigh, Thorin, such a heavy, painful sigh – while she withdraw her hand, opening her eyes, meeting my gaze this time, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“You keep him close, lad. Don’t let him go where you can’t follow.”

I nodded – what could I do but nod, her gaze was so commanding...

“What is your name?”, she asked, softly, turning back towards us as she reached the door.

“Dwalin...”, I answered – I had never told her, while we had watched out for you, somehow it had never mattered...

Itô smiled, then, and... Thorin – she was the one giving me hope, she was the one giving me the strength to shake you, that night, those few seconds where you stopped breathing indeed, shaking you so fiercely that you had no choice but to come back to me, where I could keep you safe, where I could follow, protect you and shield you...

And now – now that I have failed you, now that I have let you out of my sight, and paid it so dearly, because you are out of my reach and will always be, now...

Now I recall the words she said then, and somehow they hold a whole new meaning today – I have thought of them so often, and yet...

“Dwalin...”, she repeated softly, bowing her head slightly.

“The one he yearned for. The one who will never fail him, and always be at his side, through light and darkness, until the last day. Watch over him, boy. Until I can do so again...”

Did I – did I never fail you? Until today... I wonder, Thorin... Have I been good enough? Have I shielded you, and kept you from harm, until that last battle parted us, until that blade reached you, until your soul was freed from your body, just like you had freed Ravenhill from the white evil roaming there...?

I wish I could say so... I wish I knew, deep in my heart, that I did indeed...

I don’t know where you have gone, Thorin... I don’t want you to be alone in the dark, looking out for friends and kin and only finding shadows...

But somehow – your face... It is so peaceful, even though it is cold now, and almost hard... And you spoke about that bridge, that white bridge that had appeared several times, every time you almost left this world...

So – since you came back to me in the Iron Hills, coming back to life while Itô died... Let me believe she is among those welcoming you on the other side of that bridge. Let me think she is embracing you, right now, holding you against her and telling you how worthy you are to meet her, how you still deserve to be called King, and above all to be loved...

Let me believe that, now that I have almost fulfilled my duty at your side in this world – she is watching over you in the next.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neo-Khuzdûl translations :
> 
> \- _bunnanun _: little treasure [Thorin’s nickname for Kíli]  
>  - _bunnel _: treasure of all treasures [Thorin’s nickname for Fíli]  
>  \- _kudzaduz _: little golden-coin [Thorin’s former nickname for Frerin]  
>  \- _batshûna _: ancient silver-lady [battle distinction for Dwarrowdams who helped fighting the Drakes in the North]  
>  \- _ubnad _: leader  
>  \- _Itiddin, ubnadê. Nekhmi. Itiddine _: wait, my leader. I am coming. Wait for me.____________


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know, I should stop a bit with Dwalin and focus more about that other story with Thorin, simply because it is not so sad... But I still love to write him, and since this fic and 'King of Carven Stone' can be considered as entwined, I just had more inspiration for Dwalin... He almost caught up with Thorin now - but he still has so many things to say... I hope you will still enjoy it, despite the sad bits...

She said you yearned for me...

I did not dream it – I have not forgotten Itô’s words, they have been branded in my mind as clearly as that silvery scar upon your forearm...

But back then I was young – I did not really understand her, I was overwhelmed by her black, stern gaze, by that face, so old, that had seen so many wars and sorrows and that I have only ever seen soften while she was looking at you.

You told me later how she had fought at your side. I do not remember when you did – years after, probably... Maybe during war, maybe earlier, as we sparred – you just said she was dancing, wielding her axe like a shining torch... You did not really mention the Orcs, or that terrible raid, you never really talked about those days on the road – what I know, I learned from Frerin, and Dáin. Yes, strangely enough, your brother was not shy to confide in him – he told him how you fought, that night, and how frightened he had been...

And Dáin told me, because I asked. I wanted to know where you had been, those past weeks, because it was plain enough that your mind was still there, that those terrible images had not ended with you reaching my Hills...

You were not speaking – you were so ill, Thorin... Even drinking was too much, we had to bring it to you sip by sip, and even then – the day Itô came, you could not even swallow anymore, those few drops stayed in your mouth, only making you choke...

After she left, I had some hope, I thought you were a little better, you had moved, you had sighed... I was so sure you would recover, I tried to give you some water, I asked Balin to make you drink, still holding you against me. But you did not want that water – your body was too weak, it just ran along your chin, your neck, like tears, and you did not even moan, you were just lying in my arms, burning... almost consumed.

Oín came back later and just looked at you – there was no point trying to make you cough, you had barely the strength to breathe. He was shrewd, Oín, and he had long begun his fight and bargain with death – do you know that sometimes lately, he was actually chuckling, calling her his One? He had become somewhat softer, in his elder days – as his hearing lessened, some of his sternness gave way as well...

He is with the lads, now... He always loved them, and never was really gruff with them, perhaps because no one could ever be rough with Dís, least of all her children...

And Oín the healer, Oín who had been through Dragon-fire, and exile, and horrors of war that only ended before Moria... Oín who did not shed a tear, the day he faced you as you were lying there in my arms – Oín is weeping.

See, Thorin... He weeps for the lads, and so do I... That is the worst that can happen to anyone, to survive those who were younger, who had life before them still – how am I supposed to bring it to your sister, tell me? What can I possibly say to her?

And what kind of a Dwarf am I – acknowledging deep in my heart that for me, Fíli and Kíli’s deaths are terrible... but that it is yours who leaves me lost, and alone, and yearning to be dead as well, so as to join you in your last exile?

I cannot weep for the three of you – that grief is too strong, one Dwarf cannot handle it alone, I had to chose, somehow, so as to be still able to act, to do my duty while others are doing theirs with those cherished lads that should never have seen battle nor death...

And I chose you.

I always chose you.

And would I have to do it again, and again, and again, I would still choose you.

It is so hard to explain, Thorin... I am not sure I will manage, I am not even sure I want to – what use is there to try and explain the obvious? If explanation fails, feeling remains, and feeling is not to be ignored and hushed away idly and without consequences – and that, you learned and knew, my friend, my dear friend who gave me so much, thinking he had taken everything from me...

I chose you, that day you were fading away in my arms. I chose you, when I saw Oín’s gaze darken as he looked at you, still acting, though – asking us to remove your clothes, to fetch some snow and to bathe shreds of fabrics in it, wrapping up your legs, applying them against your body so as to cool you down... I chose you, when I heard him talk quietly to my parents in the kitchen, and heard my mother’s quiet sob.

I was so angry, Thorin...

So wholly, terribly, and helplessly angry... Exactly as I was, today, before I came closer to you, before I touched you... But that day, I was angry because I could not understand how they could let you fight alone – how my brother had been able to leave you out there, and how they all could mourn while you were still breathing...

While today, I was angry because _you_ chose to fight alone – and it cannot last long, such anger, can it? Because it was your choice, this time... And I may struggle to understand it, I may also feel hurt because somehow, we were not enough to hold you back, you still had to get out there on the ice and atone for your deeds, you did not even think of what would happen should you fail, and fall... I cannot feel angry, can I? I can only feel sad...

And so lonely. So lonely, Thorin... I cannot even feel sadness anymore, I just feel so empty, while I look at you, stretched there in those bloodstained clothes – Mahal, I have to move, I have to get them off, but somehow the main thought is crushing me against that stone... I cannot move, I don’t want to move, I don’t even want to breathe anymore, I just want you...

I am the one yearning for you here...

Well yes, I am crying, you idiot, of course I am, what do you want me to do – to pat my own back: hey, Dwalin, great job, the Mountain’s taken, those filthy Orcs are slain to the last, the Arkenstone is found, the enemy is defeated?!

Great job, Dwalin, amazingly done...

You stupid, you silly, you thrice-damned little idiot – why did you go out there without me?!

Alright, alright, I’ll keep it low, don’t worry, I always kept it low anyway... No, they won’t hear me – they left me there with you, they know I still have a sharp axe to chop down everyone who would dare disturbing your rest... They gave me until sunrise, to get you ready. And night has just begun – the torches in that silent, cold room are barely consumed yet...

So... that day, I was angry.

But not against you – Mahal, when I remember your little body in my arms, so small and pale, like a ghost indeed, even the anger I feel right now is ebbing...

Everything had been taken from you. Everything. And you had given everything – just like you did today. Oh Thorin...

So that day, I held you in my arms, exactly like this, crossing my arms upon your chest and holding you close. I could feel your bare skin against my arms, still so hot, and clammy... And I made a silent bargain, Thorin.

Mahal had better let you live – because if He did, I would give everything, everything I had, I would turn from my friends if needed, I would even be willing to starve and be robbed of my home, since it had happened to you...

If He let you live, anything He asked, I would give away gladly – just to atone for what you had given, so that there could still be some justice.

I voiced it so earnestly, with so much fervour... I kept repeating the words, on and on, and what did I care if it was late, if night was closing in, and if your breath was becoming faint, and fainter – I would give everything, everything I had, just not you, not you, not you...

And I can still feel it – that dread, that awful feeling when I realized I could not feel you breathe anymore, that your chest was still under my arms, that your face had relaxed against my breast, your eyes closed, exactly like you look today...

I gave such a scream, Thorin, such a terrible scream – and I did not even wait for my parents or Balin, I just pulled away from you, stretched you on the bed, felt for your pulse, and it was still there, Mahal, it was still there, so why were you not breathing anymore, how was it possible you had dared to stop breathing?!

I shook you, and then I bent upon you – yes, I did, and I did not even think how disgusting it could be as our lips touched, I just wanted that damned, accursed air to reach your lungs... And so, yes, in a way, I kissed you long before you did, long before the oath that made official what had already become clear for me that night... Our lips touched, and I just remember thinking yours were so hot, and dry – parched with thirst, because you could not even drink anymore, and then I just breathed for you, I just shared air with you, I had promised I would give everything I had, and I had lungs, I could do it...

Everything happened so quickly, Thorin... My parents did not even have time to reach us, because after a dozen of breaths, I felt you move against me, you gave a choking sound and as I recovered, aghast, still full of dread, I heard you cough...

I dragged you against me, I held you upright – and Mahal, that cough... It went through your whole body, it was hurting you and you could not stop, I had to hold you while my mother opened your mouth, wiping away the slime you were spitting out, spitting out at last...

I should have felt disgusted, really – it was so thick, looking so awful... But I just remember feeling relieved, so relieved actually that afterwards I cried, my whole body shaking, while my father held me – thinking I was still scared, holding me against him and rocking me, his strong arms around me and his lips finding my forehead...

Because somehow – you had resumed fighting. You coughed, despite the pain, and we could see you wince, but you were breathing, breathing freely for the first time in hours – and when we tried to give you water, a little later, you drank it, eagerly, your lips yearning for it, yearning for more, you were still so hot...

That night nobody left your side. We were all watching you anxiously – dreading to see you choke once more. But you did not. The fever was not getting down, despite our efforts, but you were asleep – still coughing sometimes, and moaning every now and then, but alive and fighting.

And in the morning it was plain you had won.

The bed was soaked, completely soaked – because of the snow drenching the shreds of fabric, and because of your own sweat. I might have thrown a bucket of water upon you, the result would have been the same...

But you did not mind – you were far too weak to mind... You just lay there, your eyes closed, your hair wet against your forehead and neck, and your breathing even, while your skin had cooled down at last.

I still remember you in my father’s arms – he had gathered you, as carefully as if you had been made of clay, and he was holding you against him, sitting in the armchair while my mother and me changed the sheets once more, brushing you bare skin every now and then, so shyly, as if he was afraid to break you...

My father who was always so tender...

We laid you down again, after that, we wiped away your sweat and made you pull on one of my tunics – and I should not have said my mother had given up hope, because she had employed her night watch in altering it so that it could fit you...

And you were even thinner than when you came – but it helped to make you look better, you seemed less lost in clothes that were not too wide for you, somehow...

We made you drink – and it was easy, so incredibly easy... You drank some water, and even the draught Oín had prepared for you, but after that you were done for, I could feel you sag against me, so we just made you lie down once more.

And I stayed at your side. I lay down next to you, and I slept, a little bit, but my rest was broken – I did not want to be asleep should you wake, I was so sure you would wake soon...

I had to be patient, though – it was a long way you were treading, Thorin, a long way to come back to me... It took you an entire day, and even then, it was so hard for you to wake, so hard to open your eyes and focus – to become aware that you were there, still alive and not lost in shadows, or snow...

I can still see your little hand, trying to push the blankets away – struggling once more, always fighting... I had tears in my eyes when I clasped your fingers in mine and met your gaze at last, that blue gaze that used to be so piercing and was now dim, hazed with fever...

I asked you, then – I was so severe, so demanding with you, you had to say it. Recognize who I was, acknowledge you had reached the Hills, that you were not wandering out there alone anymore... And you did – did gather your strength, and desperately tried to answer.

“Dwalin...”, you whispered – and I was glad your eyes fell shut then, because I had to wipe mine.

“I am... trying to... reach you...”

That is what you said – and do you know you actually broke my heart with those words? Because I could see it – I could see you still doubted you had achieved it, reached shelter, led all your people to safety actually even though I would understand that only later... You still thought yourself out there...

And I just could not bear it, could not bear that anxious look, where hope was glittering but so fragile – Mahal how was it possible that you had clung to the thought of reaching me, was that the only thing you could still hope for, was there no one at your side to support you, had it been your only solace, to think of reaching me...?

 _The one he yearned for_...

Itô had said it.

She knew the story of the Warg, obviously. She knew we had been bound in battle long ago – and she knew you were alone there, that your grandfather, your father and even your brother had left you... She knew you were yearning for someone strong enough to stay at your side whatever you would do, for good and especially for evil...

Oh do not think I blame Frerin... He did not truly leave your side, he had his own demons to face and he did so bravely – he kept asking for you in your illness, he cried against Dáin’s shoulder when they forbade him to come to you, and he took care of Dís in your absence, stayed with her always, and also with your father...

I had to give him news about you every day – he was restless until I told him you had woken again, that you had not really talked but had drunk something, and eaten even less, but that you were recovering...

He wanted to be sure you were warm, and fed, and resting... He kept saying I had to make sure you would eat, that I had to scold you should you push the plate away and say you were not hungry...

“He’s always saying no, just make him eat... He is so silly, he never acknowledges it when he’s hungry or tired, but he is – just make him act as he should, please...”

There were tears in his grey eyes – soft, caring little Frerin, he felt so guilty... He did not dare to come to you, not because they had forbidden it, but because he thought you would not have him... He stayed in Dáin’s house, only thinking of you, while you were recovering in mine – and of course, your first demand was to see him, you wanted to talk to him, wanted to see him, had something to tell him or to ask from him...

Both of you – you were two sides of the same golden coin...

That day you woke up and gazed at me, so lost... I think I have never seen as clearly how much I loved you – obviously not as my One, you well knew who truly had my heart, even though you never mentioned it aloud...

I loved you like a friend, a brother and even a father – yes, that day, I just wanted you to be safe, protected and never to feel harm again, and what are those but fatherly feelings...?

I loved you because I saw, that day, that you needed me. It would not do, to let you alone, on your own – you were just too reckless, still thought you had to prove yourself, give everything or just be lost, and Mahal knows we almost lost you...

And there was no one strong enough to stop you, to hold you back and remind you that you had limits, that you were only a Dwarf after all, that it was your right to rest and take care of yourself as well...

Those around you – Mahal, they just had messed up, had not cared enough, had not seen what was plain or had not found the means to voice it... You were the King’s grandson – you were not supposed to complain, you were supposed to hold on, endure, work hard, lead on... That  chainmail, that axe, that sword, that proud gaze and that lifted chin – how could they have forgotten to look behind that shield? How could they have forgotten you were still a boy, a child, not even bearded yet and unable to bear hardships like a grown-up Dwarf?

They must have been so glad you strived, so glad indeed – and you, you just worked on and on, only holding on because you dreamt of reaching your friend... The friend you had kept writing to so faithfully, whom you had not even seen for five full years, because you thought yourself bound to Erebor – always so dutiful...

Mahal, Thorin, how lonely you must have felt on that road...

And as I crossed your eyes, met that exhausted gaze of yours – I just swore I would never let you feel alone anymore. I would not make that mistake – I was not as bright as my brother, not as loving as Frerin, not as tender as Dís, and I was not your father... But I was stubborn, always was. This at least I can swear I have been.

I would never let you throw yourself again in such a wretched state.

But that resolve I did not voice – it would have been pointless, and you needed a proof I was there, really there, and not some image conjured by your feverish brain. So I teased you, when you said the names of the Iron Hills in that high-bred Khuzdûl of yours – hah! _Urâd Zirnul_ , you called it, just as your grandfather would – your grandfather who had not moved on in his head ever since he entered Erebor for the first time...

My father called it _Zirinhanâd_ , and I always kept using his words – I did not mind if it was somewhat rougher, I never was ashamed of it.

Neither were you – you never looked down on those Hills, because you had also been raised by your father, and Thráin had loved them, loved them until the end...

I smiled at you – and you tried to smile back... Your small hand moved, reached for mine, and that faint squeeze – oh Thorin, Mahal knows you have held my hand many times, but that weak, fragile grasp around my fingers I never forgot...

I held you against me, afterwards. I made you wrap your arms around me, after giving you some broth – I wrapped us both in my fur coat, who cared for blankets, especially those white ones, only reminding you of snow? I held you against me – and as you fell asleep I thanked Mahal, thanked Him for His mercy, for having listened to me, because you had come back...

We renewed our friendship, then – but somehow it started the other way round, our bodies meeting first, before words became a bridge between us again...

You did not talk to me, Thorin... Not that I was expecting it, you were still so weak, fighting the infection in your lungs and plagued by fever-dreams. You did not talk, not really – a word every now and then, because you mostly slept. ‘Yes’, ‘no’... and that soft little word of course, _maikhmin_...

Thank you.

But it also meant ‘I am tired, I cannot eat anymore, please...’, ‘stop talking, Dwalin, I don’t understand anymore, it’s too much...’ – and of course, it mostly meant: ‘don’t ask, Dwalin, please don’t ask, just hold me...’

They were terrible, those dreams, causing your breath to hurry, making your body stiffen against mine – at first I thought you were relapsing, but then I looked at your face and only read fear, so much fear...

I would wrap my arms around you, and gently drag you against me, waiting for you to wake – I did not shake you awake, I did not dare, it would have torn you from another world too brutally, you were still so fragile, had barely returned to me...

I let you come out of those nightmares yourself, breathing fast, your gaze terrified, shaking violently against me – and your tiny arms always searched for my chest, you clung to me with all your might, hiding your face in my shoulder, your whole body rigid with fear...

You did not talk, you did not make a sound – I never knew where you came from, which lands you had crossed, what faces you had seen...

You just clung to me, and let me stroke your back, on and on, until you calmed down, until you realized you were there with me, safe and sound – and it took so long, to soothe you, to hear your breath become even again, to warm you up again because your body was drenched in cold sweat...

That tiny body, so small against mine – I could circle your waist with one arm only, that winter... And with the other hand I brushed your back, on and on, your spine, your shoulder blades – that little body that was only bones...

“It’s alright, Thorin, it’s alright... you are safe now, you are safe...”

And you would relax in my arms, slowly, your face never leaving my chest – still so frightened, and so exhausted...

“ _Maikhmin_...”

You would always say it. Always. It meant you had heard me – had come back, and realized you did. But it also forbade me to ask where you had been – and I did not.

I could only hold you, and hope I still helped you.

Days were different – you slept better, somehow, perhaps the light and movement around you helped you believing you had left the road. And you ate, a little bit, seated up against me, still holding me close. You sparrow, you little bird – you only took a few mouthfuls, sometimes it took the day to make you eat a half-plate, you had no appetite at all...

I joked with you, I threatened to eat it up in your place – and sometimes you smiled.

“I already know I was right, calling you a lightweight... I don’t need you to stop eating...”

I had growled the words, staring at your plate in disbelief – how hard could it be, it was only mashed potatoes with some carrots, and you had barely managed three spoons...

I had you resting against my chest as so often, it helped keeping you seated, somehow you managed better backed up against me. And I saw the half-smile stretching you lips, faintly, as you turned your head to face me.

You did not talk – you could not summon enough strength to do so. But you smiled – and you let me feed you three more spoons, trying to please me.

“ _Maikhmin_...”

You had closed your eyes then – it was too much suddenly, eating, and sitting up, you could not manage it anymore, sweat was drenching your forehead and I knew you needed to rest...

I helped you lie down – how much you needed me, those days, Thorin... It was almost frightening, knowing how you hated it, to rely upon others, to appear weak and helpless – but with me you did not mind. Me you simply trusted.

I was not the only one taking care of you – but I was the only one you seemed aware of, I was the only one you talked to, the only one crossing your gaze and able to interact with you... Oín, my parents, Balin – they handled you as well, helped me washing you, changing your clothes and your sheets, and you let them... But somehow you only saw me.

And I was determined to have you back wholly. I went to Dáin’s house, every day – talked to Frerin, and Dís, giving them some news about you, but I also questioned Dáin: did he get some information from Frerin, from his father, about what happened on the road? Why had you kept in the snow while Frerin and Dís were saved? What was it you had been forced to live through, those last days on the road – it must have been during the last days, Balin might have left you but he would have informed Náin, should you have been as ill and weak, he would have made sure you would be among those they brought back at once....?

Frerin could tell us about the Dragon – not the Beast itself, he had not seen it, had only heard it, he had been with Oín, taking the Dwarflings out. He could tell us about Dale – and he did, brave little Frerin, his tears flowing freely once more for the children he had loved. He told us about Itô, about the Dwarflings, about those days he spent with Dís, helping Oín with the ill and injured, while you left the camp for hard work, trying to bring back food...

He told Dáin about the Orcs – not me, he could not face me, he kept saying to Dáin he was not worthy, and my cousin had to hold him, hold him as I held you, sobs shaking his small frame just as fear was shaking yours...

But he did not breathe a word about your father. In this you were alike – you both shielded Thráin to the end, did not want him brought low, loved him too much to be able to bring him down with words.

Neither did he talk about your grandfather – you had schooled him well, Thorin... And Frerin was so faithful, so kind – I never heard him allude to Thrór’s madness in public, he only discussed that with you...

Dís was the one giving me some clues... There she was, leaning against Frerin, sometimes even sitting on his lap, always hugging him, never leaving his side... They both looked so lost, without you, so sad, so small...

She spoke about the Dwarflings, about one especially... That little Svali – she asked if I had seen him, she did not really remember where he had gone, she had been too weak... I did not understand her, back then. I only understood decades after – that terrible fear you had, always keeping you from wanting children for fear of losing them...

In the end you got them still – Fíli and Kíli, not sons, but as close to sons as one might have wished it...  And you lost them, all the same.

But Svali – that little Dwarfling you had seen fade away, and then die, because of starvation and cold... It took you decades to say his name aloud. But you did – in the Blue Mountains, after Dís’ wedding... One night it came out, unexpectedly – and after that you left, abruptly, you just told me that story, said you had failed, and left my house, not caring that it was in the middle of the night and that you had drunk more than enough. You just left, swaying back to your own house – and your drawn face the morning after, those rings under your eyes... it had nothing to do with a hangover, nothing at all... But you would rather have me believe you had been sick, than grieving...

You always desperately tried to hide your grief away – even when it was plain...

You hated it, when people worried about you – how often have you silenced us, Balin and me, as we would argue about you...? We tried to keep it from you, but somehow you always guessed – and be it a firm word, a fierce glance or just a silent gesture, you always asked us to stop.

Even there, in the Iron Hills – that day I faced Balin in pure anger, because he kept holding back everything from us... He had just come back from seeing your father – he went there every day, spoke with Náin, helped him tending to him... and then he came back, gazing at you, his eyes so sad. It was plain he was suffering, crushed by a burden that we all could see but that he was still determined to carry alone – and it infuriated me.

I just could not understand it.

That day you had been a little better – you had woken only once during the night, had slept quietly the whole morning, had managed to eat a bit more than usually, and I had left you asleep once more, pleased to see that your fever seemed to have abided at last. The deep rings under your eyes were fading, and your cheeks had regained some color – you were still thin, still coughing, but you definitely were recovering.

And now that I was not forced to focus solely on you – I could face my brother at last. And I did – I am not proud of it, but I accused him, poured all my anger at him. I could only see he had abandoned you – I never thought of his courage, of what he was leaving behind, of the risk he took with Dagur, and the tremendous strength it took him to reach the Hills, having been cold and starving himself...

And Balin – Balin always had the upper hand when we argued. Age, wisdom, knowledge – he just had more, always had more... But that day – that day Balin was weak, because he was grieving for what Thráin had become, because to witness you in that state had broken his heart, and because he definitely did not need me to feel guilty, his sharp mind was already whipping enough...

He tried to defend himself, he tried to explain to me things were mostly grey, that it was the privilege of youth to see everything in prisms of black and white... But he did not explain us why it had had to be you, leading. He did not breathe a word about Thrór or Thráin, even when my father urged him to do so... He just stayed silent – Balin had his own conceptions of honor and silence... and I cannot blame him.

But that day I did. And it was so cruel – here I stood, his little brother who had not seen any of the horrors he had been through, who had been sheltered, who had the luxury to judge deeds after battle’s end... And I called him blind, I accused him of having abandoned you, of not having looked properly at, and after you...

And – he cried. My strong, collected brother. He slammed his palm on the table – Balin who was always so calm, and he cried, facing us all, looking so young, suddenly, and young he was, only sixty-five, one of the youngest among Thrór’s warriors, who had saved them all because he still remembered the way to his home...

He cried – and I had never seen him cry like this, had never dreamt he could be so fragile, actually... I discovered he had feelings as deep and strong as mine, that day – Balin who was always so kind, and wise, and calm... He wept in pure distress, because he felt so helpless and guilty, but he pushed my parents away, both of them, he was no child, did not even belong here anymore – and he left our house with those words, brushing his eyes, not caring for my mother’s distressed look, and my father’s kind words...

“Well...”, my mother said, her voice calm, hiding her sorrow away. “That was wonderful, Dwalin. A brilliant way to make your brother open up, congratulations...

\- I don’t care for Balin opening up...”, I said gruffly, glaring at her – I was feeling uncomfortable, really unhappy, and yearned to take some of my words back, to run after Balin...

But what was I supposed to say to Balin? I barely knew him anymore, and he did not trust me... He did not trust us, neither of us...

“Just be patient, _mugrê_...”, my father said, reaching out for me and dragging me next to him. “Balin is not like you – Mahal must have shaped you in one single move, using the same clear crystal, so that we always know where your light comes from... He poured more shadows in your brother, shadows that are called doubt – he has to weigh out every eventuality, to think about each issue carefully, and then he will talk... not before...

\- Thinking less and acting more. That’s what he should have done”, I answered – and it was mean, and immature, so that my father just shook his head.

And then he frowned, and let go of me – his hearing ever was sharp, my father was one of Náin’s most valuable warriors, always had, especially during hard night watches...

“Did you hear it?”, he asked, and my mother shook her head while I shrugged my shoulders.

He was always hearing noises – he was so calm, always smiling, but his ears were always on watch, somehow, and my mother often used to joke about it with him...

“Came from the boy’s room...”, my father muttered, and he left the kitchen, while I followed.

There you were, kneeling on the ground – pale and looking so cold, shivering slightly against the wall. You had pulled on your boots, had managed to get up alone and to walk half-way towards the kitchen, silently, not even asking for help... You looked up at my father and asked for your brother, shivering between his arms.

And you kept asking for Frerin, even when he made you sit on a chair in the kitchen, and rubbed your body with a blanket so that you could warm up... There was so much distress in your eyes, it reminded me of Balin, something had been going on in Erebor and on the road, something you shared and could not voice...

But you were still too weak to follow your trail of thoughts – my mother poured you warm tea, asked me to give you some honey, and to cut you a huge slice of oat-cake... And in the end you let her hold you in her arms – you were so shy once awake, you did not remember she had held you like a mother for days, and she did not tell you...

It was so plain you yearned for her arms, but you were yourself again, you did not give in at once, she had to tame you somehow, to brush your hair and stroke your chest, and in the end you leaned against her – and you looked like a small boy, marvelling at everything, the warmth of the cup in your hand, the sweetness of the cake, my mother’s warmth...

You thanked my parents, then – you never forgot to thank those who helped you out, never until those late, dark days in Erebor... Friends and kin you always remembered, enemies and foes you never forgot... Sitting there in my mother’s arms, thanking her gravely, something of the Prince in you showing faintly as you did so...

But the little Prince soon fell asleep again – curled up in one of our armchairs, rid of fever and sickness at last... I wish we could have kept you like this a little longer...

Yet as soon as Oín allowed you to do so, you wanted to return to your family. You were worried about them, it was plain to see... But still you did not talk. You washed, and then you dressed – and I could only admire your resolve, for your strength was scarce and yet you did not waver. You had decided you would go back to your family – you would do everything that was needed to achieve it.

You looked better, dressed in Dwarven clothes – but it was only a new screen, well did I know that the famished, little Dwarfling was still there, under the dark jerkin and the heavy layers of warm clothes we had been sure to wrap you in...

I could still hardly believe you were moving, and talking, acting with a will of your own that I clearly recognized – it made me want to hug you, crush you against my chest to be sure you were real, and whole...

But I did not, of course. I just made sure you rested, before going at Náin’s house – I pushed you back on my bed, not caring for your protests.

“I am not tired, Dwalin – I have slept enough...

\- Have you, sparrow?”, I teased you, pushing you back against the pillows, my hand on your chest, smiling at the indignation in your eyes. “I could fancy a rest, after that dressing ceremony, you are worse than a girl with your clothes...”

I had leaned myself against the pillows – I knew you would not jerk up if I lay down myself, you were just so awfully proud...

“I am not... What nonsense, Dwalin... These are _your_ clothes...”

You were facing me, your cheek against the pillow, your eyelids heavy – I knew you, I knew you so well it made me smile, and you frowned...

“What?”, you muttered, and your little fist met my shoulder. “Stop looking at me like that...

\- It’s just... I did not remember you being so fussy about your outfit...”

I earned another small shove and my grin only got broader. You closed your eyes for a while, your hand still resting against my shoulder, and I could feel it slide slowly – you were so tired still... You just yearned for sleep...

“What an idiot you are sometimes, Dwalin...”, you whispered, and then you just nestled against me, searching for my warmth once more, falling asleep within minutes.

I brushed your hair, then – I just did. I was so happy to have you back, so happy to hear you storm away at my teasing, to see you frown, I had missed you so much, Thorin... I held you against me and just watched you sleep, for a while – it was so wonderful to know you were asleep, nothing more, not ill, not struggling, not unconscious, just asleep against me...

I wish you could be asleep now, Thorin...

That day Balin came back. He did not say anything, did not explain anything, he just came back, looking even more exhausted, even more unhappy, but he hugged my mother and touched foreheads with my father – he had brought some firewood, had been out there in the snow just to punish himself for his deeds and his words...

But to me he did not talk. He was grateful for the meal my mother placed before him, and for the tea she poured him, but he stayed silent, resting his arms on the table as he finished – he looked so tired...

And then you came in. You smiled when you saw me, but then your gaze found Balin and I could see concern cloud your face instantly. You looked at him, and somehow you knew, knew how guilty he felt and how unhappy he was...

And I saw you cross the kitchen to meet my brother – you did not let him any choice, you took his arms, wrapped them around your waist and dragged his head against your chest, burying your fingers in his hair.

You laid your cheek against his head, softly, and just held him close – you knew how to deal with Balin, you knew the only thing to be done was to wait... And when he began to cry, silently, against your chest, you just rubbed your cheek against him, softly, still cradling his head, without a word.

You looked at me, then, a silent command in your eyes – and you did not judge, not then and actually never when it came to Balin and me, but I still felt shame.

_Come on, now... Just go to him..._

And I reached out for my brother – yielding to that wish at last, and Balin gave in so quickly, he just let go of you to embrace me, and finally I had my brother against me, finally I could tell him I was sorry, not voicing it, of course, but clinging to him, my hands clutching his tunic fiercely as his beard tickled my neck...

You gave Balin back his peace, Thorin... You were the only one, after all, who could have blamed him, and that thought had never entered your head...

When we accompanied you to Náin’s home, there was a renewed bound between us – and you had achieved it, walking between us, struggling to reach that house, to keep your breath, to get back to your family at last...

Your braids were woven once more – my brother had done it. Your thinness was hidden away – my clothes shielded you, and my mother had altered them so that they fitted you. You entered Náin’s home standing tall, mustering all your strength to look as you should, so that your illness did not need to be mentioned – Durin’s son again, not able to be only Thorin anymore...

I do not know what feeling prevailed in my heart – admiration, or compassion...

In the end it was just love. Because you crumbled, as soon as you saw Dís – just gave up the pretence, would have run towards her had you only had the strength, and were forced to kneel down and let her run to you... You hugged her so tightly, Thorin, kept repeating her name, held her so close, so close that she could barely breathe, burying your face in her hair so that no one could see you could not repress your feelings anymore...

And you did not see Frerin approach, so slowly, his gaze bright, shy, yet only yearning for you... But I think he guessed – I think he knew he was the one who had to come back, not you... So he stepped behind you, and hugged you, his cheek meeting yours, embracing you both, Thráin’s children finally together again...

He whispered something to you – and your dam just broke, but you did not care. You had forgotten we were there, you just knew you had Frerin and Dís back, and we all heard you sob – crying and coughing at the same time, it was just too much...

But we turned – you all deserved that moment of privacy, it would have been so heartless to intrude, you had all fought so bravely and survived...

When you got up at last you were staggering, and there were still bright marks on your cheeks – and believe me, Thorin, you looked exactly as you should, the salt on your face was just a proof of how deep your love could reach...

Dáin hugged you tightly – I think he had not realized just how ill you had been and how lucky he was to be able to hold you... And his father crushed you against his chest, waving away your thanks, taking in your thinness, your pale face and your bright eyes, and holding you close, knowing he had almost lost you.

That evening, I just watched you, sitting there with Dís on your lap, always looking out for Frerin, always searching his gaze – you still could not really believe he was there, loving you and hugging you... Every time he touched you, your face lightened and you almost shivered – it was too much, too much relief...

You could not talk, you could barely follow what was going on, we all could see you were beside yourself with relief, and joy... We sat a while with you, waited for Oín to join us and he smiled at you, glad to see you so happy – but he also ordered us silently to let you rest, and after an hour or two, we left, leaving you with your siblings...

Frerin told us later you had fallen asleep at once against him, and that during the night your fever flamed up, one last time before leaving your body for good...

He was taking care of you so earnestly... He kept looking at you, searching for signs showing you were in pain, or tired. He was worse than a mother, but you did not notice, you just reached out for him and held him against you, every time he came closer – you had missed him so much...

And somehow – you just stopped acting strong, after that. Not with your grandfather, or with grown-up Dwarves. But with us, and the Dwarflings... You did not have enough strength to pretend anymore – and what was more, Thorin, you did not acknowledge it at first, but it was obvious to those who knew you: you were mourning.

You had not been able to spare a moment to do so, ever since the Dragon came – had always acted, always worried, always moved on...

Now that recovery forced you to slow down and stop, for a while, you could finally try to face your feelings, your memories, and that grief that took its toll, now that you had pushed death away temporarily.

You were mourning.

You did not say a word, you did not even cry – but you were mourning. Standing there, among the Dwarflings, your gaze lost where death and pain lay, not even noticing it when someone asked you questions, not aware that it was Frerin who answered in your place, taking a look at you and just acting.

He talked, he jested, he did everything so that you could be left in peace – you were trying so hard to be polite, to interact as you should, but after a few sentences you would be gone... Those jokes, those challenges, those games – you could not bring yourself to participate, you would just stand there, close to your brother, or to me and Dáin... and yet you were not there.

Some of the Dwarflings resented it. How could they not? It was unsettling for them, to hear you begin a sentence and then just trail off, not even finishing it, your words ending in a whisper as will was simply leaving you...

And you did not even mind their offended looks, their shushed laughter – you were not really there, and what was more, Frerin was shielding you fiercely. He was really appreciated, his tongue ran so fast, and he had so much wit... They did not really dare to cross him, and so they never really challenged you.

Until Lóni came up with that stupid challenge, asking you to fight, when every bloke could see that you were still too weak to run... He challenged you, and ah! I still wish I had dragged him out of the training room, my hand around his throat – it made me quiver to see that puzzled, hurt look on your face as he called you overbearing, and made fun of Erebor’s warriors...

It was as if he had shaken you awake, brutally – you had been leaning against the wall, only looking at the Dwarflings in training, had never asked for anything...

You extended your hand – it was so tiny, I just wanted to yell at you not to take that sword, you were still not able, you were still recovering... But Lóni had spotted Itô’s ring and then – somehow everything happened so quickly...

He made fun of her – and suddenly you were there. I could see awareness, and anger in your eyes, anger that was fueled by a grief so devastating it was able to destroy everything...

I tried to hold you back – and you tried as well, really tried... But he went on teasing you, and suddenly it was too much...

And it was frightening to see what anger and hurt could make you do, Thorin... Then, and now, of course – that strength coming out of nowhere, that boundless rage that made you forget your own limits...

Lóni never was in real danger – I was not worried for him. I was worried for you – you, who hurled yourself at him and began to wrestle, letting him punch your ribs and breathing so fast that I could almost feel the searing pain in your chest.

You, regardless for the fact that you had almost died only a week ago, that it had taken you so long to recover, that you were still weak and should not exert yourself – you just threw it all away, because he had insulted Itô.

And when I grabbed you around the waist and pulled you away from him, you still struggled, you still were determined to spend all your strength – how you kicked and writhed, Thorin, letting yourself fall on the ground and fooling me, running once more towards him...

In the end the only way to make you stop was to restrain you, fiercely, to hold you against me and make you face me – and that look in your eyes, freezing in shock, so hurt... You hit me, when I did not let you free, you hit me as fiercely as back then in Erebor, and this time it hurt, not because of your small fists, but because I saw I could not soothe you, that I was powerless faced with so much grief...

You cried out, then – you said aloud that Itô had died, that she had been strong, that she had been worthy to be called a _batshûna_... And the Dwarflings who had been chuckling, they all turned silent as those words of despair crossed your lips...

In the end you turned towards Lóni – told him you were sorry, but that he still deserved it, and your voice was so calm... I knew then how deeply you mourned, how terrible your grief was – tearless, toneless, far too strong for mere Dwarflings...

I watched you turn from us, that day. I watched you walk away – and I did not run behind you, because I did not know what to say to you.

I felt like a child, compared to what you had been through. And as much as I wished you to share a bit of that grief with me, so that I could relieve you from this burden, ever so slightly... I did not know how to reach you.

I had touched you, I had held you against me, and I had thought that I knew you – but I did not, and suddenly you were so far away...

I was only a boy – you were only a boy, back then. And you told me nearly everything about you, not then, but in the years that followed. I know exactly what happened, in Erebor, on the road, and even what you feared here, in the Iron Hills – to lose yourself in grief like your father had done, and to become as mad as him...

Oh Thorin...

I know you. I know almost everything about you – but now, I guess I will have to say I _knew_ almost everything about you. You trusted me wholeheartedly... but you trusted me only as much as your heart could open up.

And I know you did not voice everything. I know it was grief that broke you, in the end. Old grieves making you crumble slowly in Erebor – and new, fresh, overwhelming grief causing you to shatter silently on the ice...

I tried so hard. We all tried so hard – Dís, the lads, Balin... We all tried so hard to reach you, to share that grief with you so that it could not win in the end.

But we failed – because despite knowing you so well, you fooled us, exactly like you fooled me when you were struggling to break free, and let yourself fall on the ground unexpectedly...

You did not fool us with harsh words, cold looks or fierce anger – that was just the obvious shield, and I am not even sure you managed to fool yourself with it...

No, Thorin, you ever were a subtle one, despite your temper and your strength.

You fooled us with your smile. You fooled us with your love. You made us believe you had managed it – to become whole again after Azanulbizar, to feel happiness and joy once more, to overcome the wounds that had broken you so wholly, so as to rejoice in what you had been able to achieve, not only for others, but for yourself...

You fooled us, because you kept the truth hidden. That smile – did it thoroughly reach your eyes...? That love – did it manage to erase that self-hatred you felt ever since you bore the name of Oakenshield after your father’s...? That happiness and joy – were they truly yours, or did you have to fight for them, grimly, with every sunrise that awoke you, until night would call for a truce once more...?

I do not know... I hold the warrior in my arms, the one I have always followed, Thorin the proud raven-haired warlord... And I see the boy that ran away from me, already then, my little sparrow, so tiny, holding on to a silver-ring that spoke of long-past battles...

And I can’t help wondering if I have not already lost you long ago...

If all these years of running after you, of teasing you until you smiled, of desperately trying to mend your shattered soul – if it was not the most pointless battle I have ever fought...

But it was worth it, was it not, Thorin? It was worth, to try... You did... I did... It doesn’t matter that we failed in the end, does it? It doesn’t matter, because it gave us time, to try... Time to be together, time to achieve so many things, time to see new lives unfold – and it was worth it, was it not...?

In the end...

What is left of us, in the end...?

Only dust, and memories that will fade away with the last one who remembered us, and loved us... And somehow it is fair, Thorin, we all deserve to rest and be forgotten, in the end...

You won’t be. Not for centuries, perhaps even thousands of years – they will never forget you, the Dwarven King who reclaimed Erebor and fell for his kingdom, rallying Men, Elves, Dwarves, Eagles, a wizard and even a Hobbit to his cause...

You won’t be forgotten, not the raven-haired warlord, who once wielded an oaken branch.

And the sparrow – that wonderful boy, so strong, so selfless, so full of love, with a will of iron and the feelings of a child... The sparrow I will keep, for myself.

Until I die, and will be forgotten, while others will roam this Earth...

The sparrow I will keep.

 

* * *

 

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translation** :

\- _mugrê_ : my bear, Fundin’s nickname for Dwalin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a huge hiatus in my writing concerning this story. Because I really, really doubted that I should go on. I still have my doubts - it is very hard to write, because I entwine this story with elements from my other fic, yet don't want to repeat myself. And because I give hints of events I did not mention yet, and don't want to spoil it. But mostly because sometimes writing Dwalin just makes me ache. But I have had wonderful support from you readers and you gave me the urge to try and achieve it. To get better at it, because I want you to enjoy it even though it is sad. All I can say is that this effort is worth it for you.
> 
> This chapter is a kind of interlude, not really following any thread - just dealing with the fact that Dwalin will have to bare Thorin's body. Dealing with nakedness, privacy and dignity, because these are themes I like to muse about, in work, private life and also fiction.
> 
> Please tell me what you think about it, if you feel like it. Enjoy and thank you again for your support and kind words.

The light is throwing shadows on the walls. On your face as well – that handsome face you somehow managed to share with Dís, the same chiseled features, the same sharp nose, and cheekbones... and the eyes of course.

But yours are closed now – I won't see them shine anymore, throw their striking glance at me, I won't see that scowl I loved so much, even when you raged and sulked... I won't see them soften as you smile, I won't see them brightened by tears anymore, I can just look at your eyelids, at your eyelashes – they are so dark, Thorin, how come I never noticed, how come this is the first time my fingers brush them, even after all these years...?

Has someone ever touched them...? Has anyone stroked them like that, have they felt someone else's caress? – you would only wipe them roughly with the back of your hand, press your palms against them, as if to push tears back inside...

I have touched every single part of your body, during all these years – every part, Thorin, even the private ones, so how can it be that my fingers meet that fragile, silken screen for the first time? Darker than your hair, softer even than your eyebrows, so long, throwing shadowy curves under your eyes – you look so secretive like this, so full of mystery...

Where have you gone...? What is it you see...?

Somehow you look so young to me – lying there in your last sleep... Yes, you are bearded, yes, there is grey in your mane and yet – that handsome, striking face, without the fire in your eyes, so still and peaceful, it still seems a boy's face to me...

I have watched you sleep so often – I have seen you close your eyes so often as well... When you were in pain and didn't want me to see – but this was vain, Thorin, I always knew, because I ever ached when you were hurt, even now, you know, even now... When you felt safe enough to sleep – and I can hold comfort you did, next to me: you used to say it, didn't you? That you felt safe with me...

But sometimes it was shyness – something no one save those you let close enough would even dream finding in you, and yet it happened, every now and then... How I used to tease you, remember? I used to call you a dreadful prude, and you always blushed, always tried to defend yourself, but I wonder if you realized how truly pure you were – oh Mahal, Thorin, I still have to smile when I think about it...

How could it be that someone whose body was so graceful and strong, who was mastering every single move and breath, who was almost commanding his own heart to beat faster or to calm down – how could it be you felt so helpless when it came to undress...?

Why would you even feel shame, I wonder – there were only boys around you, only boys save Dís and she was so small, for many years... But no – you would not undress in front of others, you could bare your chest, your legs, your back and your arms, but the rest was to be kept hidden, not even to be acknowledged, it was just private, too private to share with anyone...

Even as a boy – goodness, Thorin, I can still hear your voice, not yet as deep, but still commanding, every time it came to wash:

"Turn around, Dwalin."

You would face me, but there would always be this tiny second where you looked down, where I should actually have noticed the shadow your eyelashes threw on your face – but I was too amused by your blush, by that old-fashioned modesty you somehow never managed to shake off...

Afterwards, of course, in dire circumstances – you would not say it anymore. You would undress, quietly but quickly, at my side, but it would always be there, that shy, averted look as you stripped yourself off your clothes – and I always laughed silently, thinking you could definitely not deal with your own nakedness... I never thought it was actually so thoughtful, you looking away, because you might have seen my body – my own nudity, my scars, my private wounds. But you did not want to pry...

Yet you did touch me as intimately as I did touch you.

During war, and even before, when I was too weak to stand up, too feverish to move – goodness, Thorin, the shame I felt, it could only be softened by the fact that it was you, your glance, your hands, your own warm, strong, yet considerate embrace... Caring, yet respectful – never disgusted, yet never entirely void of shyness. You blushed just as I did, but you still went on, helping me, cleaning my body, so determined, so fierce and caring in your loving friendship...

And in the end we managed it. To look at each other without having to blush, to be able to bare ourselves in need – because we had to survive, because hidden wounds only lead to more injuries, and because we trusted the other.

That trust – you would not believe how I treasured it, Thorin. I treasured it in you more than in anybody, because you did not bestow it idly. The most precious gems are the rarest.

You just shook your head when I talked about shame, about disgrace, about bodies failing us... You laid your hand around my wrist so as to soothe me, and you looked at me. Truly looked at me, and your gaze was never averted then, there was no shadow there, only light you seemed to bestow upon me as your eyes met mine.

"Nonsense, Dwalin."

And then, that soft smile, and these words – so full of private meaning:

"We have to keep you there, have we not?"

Of course, Thorin. Anything you want, Thorin.

Anything but seeing you looking as lost, sad and alone as you were, back then in the Hills, sitting there on the windowsill, a book on your lap, not reading, only gazing at the runes while your heart lost itself in grief...

It was right after your outburst with Lóni, and you had not left your room since the past evening. Dáin told me you didn't talk, didn't even look up – your gaze averted, your face closed, you just shut yourself away.

But this I expected – I could not reach you, could not fully understand what was weighing you down, but I knew you. I had made that mistake once, in Erebor – I had let you hit me, then run from me, pretending you only yearned to be alone... But I knew you only felt lonely, that you just yearned for someone to run after you...

So savage...

Of course it would not do, to try to rein you in – to come there asking questions, waiting for answers and explanations... One had to tame you – make you understand you were safe, that there would be no hurt, no harm, no judgment, only some space where you could be yourself at last...

So proud...

You would not acknowledge it at first – how sad and lost your felt. But it was plain – your face pale and thin, and your feet icy when I took them, placing them between my knees to warm them up...

I just did it. It was the kind of things my father always did with me – not shouting at me because I had forgotten my socks once more, just locking my feet between his strong knees, keeping me from moving, so that I would remember it next time. He didn't know, of course, that I just relished his touch. Or maybe he did, and relished it too. I'm not sure... it was so long ago, anyway, I was just a little boy back then...

So were you. Pretending you were happy, reading about ironwork and forges – it only helped to remind you of the road, of all the villages you had crossed, desperately wearing yourself out, for food, for some hope of bringing back something for your people... Still thinking about Men, though, about their ignorance in metalwork, regretting our knowledge could not be shared, for our own safety...

Oh Thorin, was there ever a moment where you could actually stop thinking – and just acknowledge you were hurt, and sad, and did not know how to leave darkness anymore?

I just waved your pretence away. I teased you, until I could see a half-smile in that drawn face, until I was sure you did not want me away...

You did not want me away.

You never wanted me away – except here, except yesterday...

Mahal, can it be only yesterday you pushed me away, told me to leave, threatened me with that bright, furious gaze where I could also read fear...? Read that I had lost it, your trust, your faith, lost it to the gold or rather your own demons – you, stripped of your senses, and I, of everything I treasured.

I thought I had lost you, that day.

How could I guess I had not – that it was only the beginning of my loss, that I would have to endure the joy of seeing you come to yourself again, fighting at my side with renewed energy, and a fire I had not witnessed for long, only to lose you again...?

And now there is... there is no going back... You won't open your eyes, you won't ask me to follow... You will not say anything... You won't answer to my whys, to my pleas – I won't beg you to come back though, I know, Thorin, I know... You won't come back. You don't want to. You don't want to...

Your skin is cold. I can feel it. I can feel the raw, bloodied crust on your brow where my forehead touches yours. I have to get you dressed. I have to move on, I don't want to be tearing at your limbs because you turned to stone before I kept my promise.

Mahal, Thorin, this is so hard...

This is so hard because I know you will be yielding, and calm, and defenceless on this cold stone – not looking away in shyness, not glaring at me because the weakness of your body maddens you, not struggling, not trying to push me away... Just yielding in my arms.

This is so hard because I know... I know there have been moments where you have yielded, not because of dire need, not accepting help because you had no choice – but because you truly wanted it, and granted yourself small moments of intimacy and love...

In Tharbad, where you still had so many illusions, where you dreamt, probably for the last time, and felt a heartache so deep you disguised it in shame, smiled about it and made me promise to keep it between us. But you would still touch the tiny golden chain around your neck, every now and then – your eyes and face betraying nothing, your fingers only closing for some seconds around the tiny pendant. Remembering.

And in the Ered Luin – this time a grown-up Dwarf, toughened by battle and war, only seeking for someone who was as hardened as you, someone whose illusions and hopes you could not shatter, someone who did not want you to be anything else than a Dwarf in the night, who would never ask you for marriage, sons or heirs. Someone who could not be broken, who would barely care... And yet I know you still felt love, somehow. Because you would always care, always love those you let come so close to you.

Of course I know.

I was close too – though never in that way. Some were sniggering, thought I was your One, that it was because you kept me at your side that you never married, that you never seemed to show any interest in getting sons – they never knew.

That you never kissed me like that, that I never touched you like that – there might have been desire, in aftermath of battles, in deep pits of grief as well, and yes, they might have been moves and touches that always kept unmentioned because they happened in the darkness, when we were very young, and had to anchor ourselves to the other to survive the horrors we went through...

But I have never loved you as your One – and you haven't either.

It was less than that, and so much more than that. And she was there, between us, your lovely, beautiful, strong and marvellous sister.

Dís.

She is still alive, but I wish... I wish I would never see her again. I wish to Mahal I could have died instead of her sons, so that she would grieve for your death but still have something to anchor herself – who will comfort her, and hold her, and keep her upright, now that you have all gone...? What will she have now, my Dís, the One I dreamt of and loved so much that I rejoiced in seeing here marrying another...?

The One she chose was no warrior, he would not be slain, they would live happily together and bring the children I would never have to the world – she had seen enough of battle and war, enough of her kin slaughtered, of course she had to marry him. Not me, never me.

And you – you would marry too, we all waited for you to pick your One and grant yourself what you deserved, a family of your own, children of course, a future, not only names of the past, all dead, all gone...

That's what I thought, that's what Balin thought, and we were so wrong...

You just stood there, alone, your beard shortened, like a young lad, your braids grimly woven – not smiling, not courting, not joking, just working. Pushing everyone away, not realizing it just made you more desirable. Horror-struck when you figured out some were dreaming of a future with you – making sure they kept away, that their hopes would quickly flow towards someone else. Never laughing at them though, hurting them maybe – everyone has to feel pain when hope crumbles – but anxious not to break them.

Just shielding yourself away, staying distant, shaking that stubborn head of yours if they came, asked you for a dance, tried to get you into talking...

At the beginning we joked about it, Dís, Balin and me. We thought you shy, and prude, and it made us laugh – you knew nothing of love, Thorin, you were just like a little boy... So we thought in our amusement, but we were wrong.

Love you knew – and it scared you more than Dragons, Orcs and death.

For you had seen what it had done to your father, his mind beginning to crumble softly ever since his One had died. And to your mother – dying so young, in childbirth, leaving you with a sister that somehow still was your most precious treasure, just like your brother had always been your brightest gem.

Love... it held hope, it held promises, but it also brought grief, and death – and you did not want it. You had gone through so many aches – you were not mad enough to bring chosen wounds upon yourself, and inflict them to another...

Love was not for you.

You had nothing to offer.

You would only hurt, and destroy.

You would only make someone else unhappy.

You did not want it.

There were other Dwarves without wives, why was it you could not be left in peace? Nobody said anything to Balin, no one bothered me, why could they not let you in peace, just once, when it was no one's concern but yours?

I have heard you voice it, Thorin. Softly first – a confidence to a friend. But the rest you threw at us in hurt and rage, one day – Dís was already married by then, and there was no end to the gossips...

I can still see you, facing us, clutching the back of a chair with your hands – your eyes so bright, tears of anger and hurt brimming in them. I think it was the only time I ever heard you beg to be left in peace, and this day I was the one averting my gaze in shame – I should have known. I should have known.

You did not ask us to leave – I think your own words frightened you, you had let down your guard and just stood there, clinging to that chair, all strength, ability and anger. Yet looking so fragile.

"It is all right, laddie. No one rules your heart but you. King or beggar – no Dwarf is to be driven to marry by force or need."

My brother found the words that failed me, that day... You looked at him, still facing us, and there was so much hurt on your face, I still could not decide if you would hurl yourself at us or shout, and ask us to leave on the spot.

But you just nodded. And as you did so a tear ran down your face – and it was our fault, we had brought this on, we should have known...

"It is all right, lad. It is all right as it is – exactly as it is."

A nod again – and your hand, leaving that chair at last, wiping your cheek silently, while shame burnt down my very soul.

"We will leave you now. You have had enough of us. I can show you these figures later...

\- No. We do that now."

Your eyes were still burning, but they had dried. You still stood facing us – defying us, daring us to go and think you needed a moment to collect yourself, you did not care, you could deal with it, you were strong, it had just been a small moment of... well – something that was not even worth to be mentioned.

And you bent upon these accursed figures, and you ran your fingers down the pages, the documents, the facts, and soon I could see you frown, and lock up your own private grief because of greater cares – it was never enough, it was just never enough...

In the end we left your house together – you grabbed your coat, and whatever it was you needed, and down you stormed to the mines, to the forges, determined to make these figures bend in our favour, at last. Hard work had to lead to some success, it had to, it was autumn, not winter yet – there was work to do.

There was always work to do.

Anything but talk, anything but open your arms, ask for an embrace, for the soft touches you deserved – not Thráin's frantic struggles you bore, every night, sharing his room, always ready to get up, to run towards him, to restrain him in a fierce wrestle that was also love, true enough, but not the one you should have got, not only this, Thorin...

Back then even Dís could barely touch you.

You loved her so much – loved her so fiercely that it hurt us both, her and me. That is why I never asked her. I could not bear to take her away from you, just as she would never have taken me, be it only for the fact that I was your mamarrakhûn – that it would have meant choosing between her and you, and I could not.

I could not.

And in the end she left you – and it hurt you so much, but you wanted it for her. It relieved you, somehow, to see her happy, despite your own grief – someone else was there to care for her, only for her, someone would finally make her smile, and shine...

You liked him. You even loved him. I think he had something of Frerin, for you. You never talked much – but somehow he knew you, saw through you, eased your mind when he was around, so full of joy, of quiet ability, and wit as well...

Still – he took her away. And that autumn – you were just desperate. I could see you wearing yourself out, losing yourself in work, coming home only to tend to your father who was crumbling away, plagued by obsessions and fears you knew too well...

Love – it was the last thing you could think of, and I, and Balin, and even Dís... Mahal, we had been so thoughtless and foolish, had thought you would actually enjoy some little teasing, that it would spur you, give you a pleasant kick in the right direction, make you brave enough to grasp for love if you found it...

It only hurt you, and I could not bear it. I never mentioned it afterwards.

Never.

I just made sure you got them – when no one was watching, when I would have you at our house, smoking a pipe or enjoying a pint. The little touches you liked – my hand on your arm, your shoulder, your back sometimes. The hugs, also.

"Dwalin, you are drunk..."

It was as close to a smile as I would get, back then – pretending I needed you to hold me upright, clinging to you under the pretext I had had more than a dozen too much.

Hah, Thorin. You really thought you were the only one pretending? 'Course I was drunk – a bit, but not enough to keep away from aims. The only way to pull you into a hug back then was to make you think it was for someone else's good... You thought you did not deserve it, that it was wasting love away, but were we but in need – then you would hold us, let us touch you...

Yield, in a way. Thinking we could not feel how you softened, how you yearned for more yet never would ask – you just were too proud, always so stubborn...

So yeah – you got hugs from your drunken mamarrakhûn who was never truly drunk when he hung around with you, damn it, Thorin, I wanted you safe, remember?

"Dwalin, come on... Let go, I am safe, I am safe..."

My arms around your waist – and that little shake I felt. You had laughed. Just once. And then you just gave up and settled in my arms – you would have brought me back home, on the couch, on my bed, wherever, and there was no way I'd let you go.

You would have drunk too, of course, less than I did, barely enough to smile, yet enough to yield to my pleas – you would stay. Rest your head against my shoulder, close your eyes, your arms against my chest. Not hugging me, just resting.

And falling asleep before me, in the end. One undisturbed night, every now and then – we tricked you, Balin and me, we did... He would stay with Thráin those nights, let you sleep with me, and they were so stupid and blind, those who said it was for me to have you, for you to have me, they just knew nothing.

I just wanted you to sleep. To rest. To have some warmth, every now and then.

I have never seen you open up in love, never in daylight and full awareness. Not in the way you did, in Tharbad and in the Ered Luin. I do not know how you kissed when you truly chose it, I do not know how you embraced and touched and sighed and did whatever people do when they want to be close and make love to each other...

Because I was not your One, and you were not mine.

It was less than that, and so much more than that. And I don't give a damn if people snigger. I'm not looking away, or blushing.

I'm not going to touch you in any other way than I always did, I promise.

But this you know. And I know you knew – these mornings where you woke up in my arms, hazed with sleep, hardly able to understand how this could be, how it came you had slept so long, how your body could be so relaxed and warm. You would turn your head, search for my gaze, your arms still curled up against my chest, like a boy, like so long ago...

"You drank too much...", you said softly.

And I just grinned at you. Crushed you against my chest for a moment, smiling as you struggled to break free, puffing at your hair and laughing even more when I saw you wince and shake your head.

"So did you, your Highness."

That was enough to set you ablaze – oh you were strong, Thorin, you stripped yourself off my arms quickly enough, but these mornings you would smile. Dress quietly at my side, just as if we were still two Dwarflings in a tent on an exile road.

And then walk away. Able to stand up for a while again, or so I hoped.

I won't hurt you, Thorin. I won't bare your body and leave it naked on the stone, you would have hated it. I will do it the way you did for me, when I was injured – the way I did it when you were ill, or hurt.

I will remove most of your clothes, but the lower part will stay covered while I tend to your face, and chest, and back, and arms... your hands as well, your fingers, so full of strength and grace... And you will be clothed again while I take care of the rest.

You will never be bare, and exposed, I promise you. No one is going to pry and stare, not even me. Your body will stay yours, as it always has and always will, I will make sure of that.

Do not worry. Do not blush. Do not look away.

It's only me, after all. It's only me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am back - and honestly, I'm struggling so much with guards and a cold at the moment that I am not sure of what I'm offering to you right now. Probably nothing cheerful, but still - there is lightness even in dark moments and I hope you will agree with some of my character's views here. It's a hard story to write, I already told you so, and I know you expect me to make progresses in the so-called "memory-story", but this chapter is still a bit of a break - afterwards it will be more harmonious, or at least that's how I plan it at the moment. Thank you so much for your support, as usual, and hoping you will still enjoy it, Meysun.

Here we are, now, Thorin.

 _Mahal give me strength_.

Here we are.

 _Steady my fingers_.

This is it.

 _Quench my tears, give me strength, give me strength_.

I am facing you once more.

I have let go of you, and I look at you, stretched there on the stone, your palms turned down – your fingers are bloody, there is a dark crust below your nails, it covers your rings, dulls their silver, but you never wanted them to shine anyway, did you...?

I am so scared, Thorin.

I am scared to do this, I am scared to see, I am scared to witness – I can't bear to see what that Orc did to you... I want you to wake up, please. Wake up, please, please Thorin, wake up, tell me it's just a bad dream, that it's only the worst injury you went through, that it hurts like the blazes and that I can keep my hands where they belong, that you don't want my help, don't need it, and now Dwalin that's _enough_.

"You're not my mum."

That look, on your face, playing brave even seconds away from breaking down – biting your lip to keep it from quivering, looking up at me... Looking up because you were still small – and always looking up in the end, a little bit, because I kept my forehead above you, even once we had reached adulthood...

That was our favourite sentence, back then – as boys and even during war.

'You are not my mum' – meaning _I won't break down, no matter what you say, don't expect tears, or soft words, I'm busy fighting down the pain and you're no help, well actually you could be, if you would please just hold me and keep quiet, I could use your shoulder, because you are as close to safety and love as I will ever get, and don't you dare say a word about it – don't you dare_.

Goodness, Thorin, it took me a while to understand the way you twisted words – oh you were a wordsmith of your own, a strange and fierce one, using them as a shield mostly, the only way you had found to deal with them, for you were never a speaker...

Let me undo your belt.

I haven't even noticed – but it's a pretty one... Not bearing your crest – that one you lost in that accursed Forest we left like beggars in those thrice-damned barrels... But this one – this one is beautiful, I haven't seen such carving for centuries... That one day we went down into Erebor's forges together, and left it giggling because we were teasing each other about love...

Love, Thorin... Mahal...

There you go. The belt is off, now the jerkin, dark and simple, made of steady leather – you tossed off the heavy golden armour that was only restraining you and fought like you always did, in plain garments, your moves swift and your blade deadly...

My little lightweight... Your arm is so heavy, lifeless in my hand – there we go, Thorin, now the right arm, let me sit you up a bit, I'm almost there...

Your jerkin is soaked.

It is soaked, and it falls on the ground as I let go of it, because your chainmail – your chainmail is torn, the meshes are red with blood, it has reached your tunic, has even drenched your trousers, and suddenly I can't take it, I press my palms against the gap, against the meshes, I just want that blood to go once more where it belongs, that wound to close, oh Mahal...

The sobs that shake me are silent, this time. I don't hear any noise, I don't feel anything save the hard touch of your chainmail against my palms, and my own pain – breathtaking and wordless, because I have lost you.

And I must have lost even more – must have lost every single ability still left in me, for when a hand finds my back while another gently brushes my arm, I flinch like a Dwarfling, my fingers instinctively searching for axes I don't carry anymore.

Only to face my brother, who is gazing at me sadly.

"You don't have to do this alone, Dwalin...", he says – and as Balin says these words I can see him there, in that Hobbit's hole, speaking to you, trying to remove some of your burden...

"He would not have wanted it for you.

\- What do you know... what do we know of his desires – his expectations – his crazy, accursed, thrice-damned wishes?!"

I have roared – I just roared at him, and my voices echoes loudly in the hall, like a wounded animal, and that's what I am, that's what I am... But Balin is not afraid, Balin just gazes at me and somehow I realize he's old – he's getting old, his beard is all white and the sparkling light in his eyes is dull, because he lost you.

He lost his lads, there's only me left, and he doesn't mind my roaring because I'm the last one remaining. He hasn't removed his hand from my arm, his palm from my back, I am the one letting go, letting go of you to face my brother, shaking all over with grief like a child.

I am so much taller. He barely reaches my chin, ever was a small one, small but stout, and brave, and sharp. I pushed him away so often, just shaking my shoulders, throwing a jest at him so that he let me be, somehow we barely ever touched, we just clasped forearms every now and then, or bumped our heads together, but hugs and close touches, no – that's what you got with us, Thorin, you were the one linking us...

"Don't blame him...", Balin says softly.

"I don't! Don't you dare – you were not there! You were not there!

\- I know..."

He pulls me close, there are tears in his eyes but he still pulls me close, he doesn't care for my balled fists, for my tense body, for the fact that I could just crush and choke him – I'm so angry, I'm still full of every possible battle-reaction...

But Balin just pulls me close, and I feel it – that stout, small body, still hard, even though it has aged, and doesn't answer as quickly as it once did, and suddenly I'm on my knees, on the ground, at the foot of the broad stone where you are stretched, waiting for me...

I'm on my knees, and my brother is holding me, and somehow I am the one feeling small, I am the one being held this time, and his hand just brushes my back as I say it, with a broken voice I barely recognize.

"I wasn't there. I wasn't there..."

Balin just strokes my back, his forehead pressed against mine, and he doesn't say anything at first, he just lets me get rid of these words I heard _you_ voice, on and on, that day where you lost half of your soul while I could only watch...

Just as Balin can only watch, because there is nothing to answer to that.

"Now don't you get started on this, laddie."

His voice is calm, gentle as ever – he actually speaks, he actually still finds a way for words.

"I don't want you to tread that road. I don't want you, Dwalin, and neither would Thorin. He has tortured himself with guilt almost all his life – and I have not witnessed this, and what it led him to, to see my little brother go down under the same burden."

I flinch when he says your name aloud, and his words make me break away from him, staring at him in disbelief, my eyes still wet with tears. And Balin's are shining as well – how it must hurt him, to bring you down with words, to say aloud that you have failed, and that there was nothing we could do about it...

"Don't think I blame him. I love him just as much as you do – but Dwalin, I... I still have you. And at my age – in such terrible, dark times... It means a lot, and I don't want to lose this. Let your old annoying brother ask you for that tiny favour – don't start with this, laddie. Don't tread that road. It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

He is looking at me earnestly, and there are tears streaming down into his beard – just like that day where the Halfling asked him about Dragon-sickness... He can do it, Balin – he can cry and keep on talking quietly, without raising any alarm, any comment...

And I feel so tired, suddenly. I don't believe him – I cannot believe it's nobody's fault, of course it is, of course someone has to answer for that gushing wound in your side, the skies, Mahal, _anybody_...

But as Balin strokes my back, still cradling me like a boy, all I can do is nod.

And when he asks me if I want help, if he wants me to stay here at your side, and help me undress you, bathe you, and clothe you, because I don't have to do this alone – and when I shake my head, he simply goes on brushing my back.

"You have time, Dwalin. There are hours still until dawn, and no one here will rush you."

I nod, that's all I'm able to do, my voice has failed me just like my strength, and I let my brother hold me, for a while, because it is true, I still have him and somehow, even though this is not much, for we are kingless right now, and aching, and weeping, somehow this is still something, and it holds me upright.

I think I almost doze off. I probably sleep for several minutes, sunk into my brother's embrace – it has been a terrible day, and we all fought for hours, not to speak of the endless watching hours on Erebor's ramparts, of the effort of getting everything _safe and out of reach_ , for that was your obsession...

I flinch as I wake up, but Balin is still there, gazing at me as I recover, and his hands find my shoulders, linger there for a second as he watches me gather enough strength to stand up once more.

"I will come back in a few hours. To bring you fresh water, and make sure you get some rest as well."

I just nod. I feel detached, not refreshed by my outburst and the short sleep I got, but more composed – able to face you again.

And as I turn from Balin I feel his arm upon my forearm, one last time.

"I am proud of you, Dwalin."

And with these soft words he is gone, and I am standing at your side once more.

This time, I don't look at you searching for your gaze, for expressions I love so much, for any sign that you are still there, somehow, that you remember...

I look at you and my heart is mute, because I'm gauging your body like I would do it for a battlefield, searching how I am going to fight my way through its obstacles and hiding places.

I look at your face and I take them in, the wound upon your forehead and the stains on your cheeks, your matted curls where the braids are still tightly woven, coated in dirt and blood...

I will clean the wound, it doesn't need stitches, and I will wash your hair, I will run the comb through your dark locks. But I'm not braiding them.

I never did.

Balin did it, in the Hills, that day you were too weak to do so, and afterwards it was Frerin, in days of illness and injuries. It could have been your father, but you always preferred his nimble fingers, he was so quick at it, and his touch was soothing, taking away some of the pain as you let him weave Thrór's pattern into your locks...

And once he was gone... Once he was gone, even though you could barely lift your arm, you did not let us touch your hair. It floated loose, unadorned, on your shoulders, without bead, braid or hair-clasp – raven, unruly waves that spoke of mourning, of a wound so deep it had to keep unmentioned.

And no one said a word. Seven weeks you bore it loose, seven weeks while your poor arm tried to mend, your fingers stiff and blue, your forearm shattered and bleeding with splinters, and your elbow crushed...

And you would still try to keep clean and neat. Quietly trimmed your beard with the one hand you could use, not caring you might cut your cheek, or even your throat... Ran the comb through your hair, because it would not do, to appear messy and unkempt while so many were looking up at you. But braids there were none.

You pushed Dís away when she offered her help – no one was to touch your hair, no one, now that he was gone. And when I found you in your tent, that day, when I noticed your matted hair, the unhealthy, red glow of your cheeks and the burning shivers that went through your body, when I ran for Oín who cut through the cast to free your arm, draining pus and blood away, we both noticed that your injured hand was balled around something.

You would not let go, we had to wait for you to get properly knocked out, but then we saw that your poor, broken fingers still found a way to cling to something.

Two hair-clasps. Delicate, almost unadorned – Durin's pattern carved ever so slightly into the silver, the hair-clasps of a boy, not grown up yet, still so young...

I placed them back in your palm, then. I watched you recover, slowly, saw your fever get down, saw your arm mend just like your chest and ribs did, eventually. I looked at that left fist, every day, and never saw it open, not even in your sleep.

Your sweat and blood mingled with the silver, and it took you a while longer still to let go of them, even when the cast was gone, because your fingers were so numb.

But one day there were braids once more. Only two, circling your face, and it was such an effort, really, just these two, simple, three-threaded braids you favoured, with the thin, silvery hair-clasps you had kept in your palm for seven weeks – to keep going, somehow.

So no, Thorin.

I am not going to braid your hair. That's a gaping hole in your own battlefield I am going to avoid. Balin will do it. Balin knows that pattern by heart because he wove it into Thráin's hair, endless times, especially at the end...

Balin will do it because you are still his little lad – because he has done it once with love, and care, while you were just a boy and had asked him for it.

I will keep to what I know. And I know wounds, and bruises. And aches.

I will remove that heavy chainmail, I won't dwell upon the holes in it, not anymore, and I will just pull your tunic from you, I know how to do this, the important thing is not to stop, come what may.

And then, when your chest will be bare, I will look at that wound on your side, look at it like I would gauge a crack, a fissure, a chasm on the battlefield, and find out how to bridge it. For I will close it, Thorin, this I promise you, and then there will be no more blood, no more gore on that body of yours I know so well...

Then I will be able to look at you again, search for the old scars I know, like you search for landmarks you used to remember, to find your way home... Then I will be softer, and more caring, and I will wash you, and hold you, and make sure every single spot in that hard, handsome body tells its tale, so that everyone will know what a great Dwarf is stretched here, what a wonderful spirit and soul roamed this well-formed frame...

I will find my way to you again, Thorin, I promise – but right now I can't, right now I'm fighting you, your rigidness, your paleness and the hurt I know you felt, still sticking to the chainmail I am removing now, removing with firm, purposeful moves, and finally tossing on the ground, listening to the clang of metal against stone.

Your tunic is torn, and its shreds are drowning into a mass of dark-red blood that has not dried yet, quelling from a wound that has torn your lower ribs open – oh goodness, Thorin, it hurt you, it must have hurt you so much...

And I hurt you as well, because in the end I just tear your tunic open, cutting through the fabric – it is so light compared to your chainmail, and the threads have suffered already, it is better to do it that way, baring your chest and pushing it against your wound while I free your back, pressing the remnants of that once-kingly cloth into the wound that unmade you, at last...

I press my hands upon it, once more, but this time I'm grim, I'm not wishing for the blood to flow back into your veins, I just want to make sure I wipe most of it away, so as to see how I can close that wound once and for all.

When I remove the tunic my fingers are balled around the cloth. I don't know what I am going to see, I am prepared for anything – I know it will be ugly, and horrible, every wound is, especially the deadly ones.

But this one is surprisingly neat, and for a while I can only stare at it.

It is deep, true enough, and it has cut through your body, leaving another hole in your back, but on the whole it looks ridiculously narrow and slim, although it has bled so much and cost you your life...

There is a gaping line between your lower ribs and just below, and that is it.

The damage is all inside. Your lung is probably clotted with blood, and though your clothes and body are covered in blood, I know that you have bled inwardly even more.

It is ridiculous – a few stitches will do the trick, at the utmost, the point is not to fix it, it's just to close your skin, make sure nothing leaks out, make you appear whole when so much is torn apart, when all is already lost and broken beyond repair.

It is ridiculous, and yet I raise your tunic to my chest, the tunic I am still holding, damp against my fingers, staining it with copper. I hold it against my chest, just as if it was you, because it's _your_ blood, _your_ hurt, and I am feeling it in my own chest, in my own body...

And it hurts.

But I know bruises, and wounds, and aches.

I have done it for you before, haven't I, those days where Oín was not at hand...? I have stitched you up more than once, and these moments were probably those where I had you lying almost as still as you are now – because you trusted me.

"As long as it's no ink...", you would whisper, in a faint attempt to joke, lying there under my hands, keeping your breath even so that it could be easier for me. "I'd rather not remember that...

\- I'd rather have you more careful next time!"

I had no humour in such times – I was too worried for you, too angry against myself. No one was to touch you, no one to leave his mark upon your body, but it was just impossible with you, you always made sure to throw yourself in the first line, because that was where you belonged...

And you would stop speaking, just lie there, calm and still, bearing my outburst and the somewhat clumsy stitches I would inflict upon your skin.

You never complained. You just never complained, and once I finished I would take a look at your face and meet your bright gaze, thanking me silently – apologizing also, for needing my help and being compelled to ask for it.

"What's wrong with tattoos?", I asked you once, having finished to close a wound once more – that one on your back, I think, one that wasn't really serious, but that you could not reach yourself.

"I'm better with ink needles that with threads, I promise you..."

You were pulling your tunic back on and I saw you wince – but whether it was from the pain or from my words I could not tell.

"You can pick any pattern. Anything you want – runes, sigils, symbols or drawings. Any ink you want – if it's for the King's son...

\- Dwalin..."

Your voice was soft and it stopped me instantly. I watched you wrap yourself in your jerkin, clasp your belt around your waist and brush the hem of your tunic with the back of your hand – and as always I felt like you were drawing a screen between you and the world. Your clothes, your warrior gear, you always seemed so aware of what it meant to pull them on, to slip into the strong leader's skin once more when all you wanted was to lie down and rest...

"I have nothing to show that's not already known."

You smiled at me – but as usual, it did not reach your eyes, try as you might, not in these years, not yet. Back then it was just another screen.

"My skin is not half as interesting as yours – _you_ keep on tattooing it, they are still wondering if everything that is told about Dwalin son of Fundin is true or mere legend...

\- It's not about telling stories", I threw back – that day you seemed closer, easier to reach, and I was determined not to lose that opportunity. "It's about remembering. Having something no one can take from you, never, no matter what happens."

You had bent to pick up your boots – but the movement must have pained you, because I saw you stiffen and then let go of them, sitting bare-footed on the narrow bed where I had had you lie down, glad to find this safe little inn in that busy town of Men.

"Surely I don't need tattoos for that...", you whispered, and you had not spoken to me, not really, I could tell it from the look in your eyes.

I dropped the subject then, pretended I had not heard, did not care – and though you still looked pale to me, you were eager to follow me out of our room, to grant ourselves a meal and a few drinks, after that week-long journey we had spent defending Men who barely cared to see us injured, as long as their wares kept safe.

That night we bolted the door and agreed we would both sleep – and it went fine, for a few hours, it was a good feeling to know we were safe, sleeping under a roof in warm, dry beds, in a town so busy no one could possibly care for us.

But then I heard you moan, and voice half-articulated words in Khuzdûl – commands or prayers, I could not tell, for soon enough it was just a name, breaking out of your lips, on and on, in a soft lament I knew but too well...

I got up and sat myself at your side, wondering what to do. I knew that waking you up would make you burn in shame, that it would shatter the easy-going interactions I had been so happy to find back during this hard journey – but I also knew you were suffering, likely to scream aloud, and this we could not afford, not there, surrounded by Men...

In the end I brushed your shoulder and stroked your back, careful not to touch your injury. Your skin was slightly hot, only a light fever, as it often happened after I tended to your wounds – somehow I never was as swift and efficient as Oín, but then again I always worked in dire circumstances, or so you would say to comfort me...

You jerked up, your heart racing, your breath short – and for a while you struggled to understand where you were, what had happened, who was the one facing you, and I felt so sorry, and so sad, because you would shrink away from me, I know you would...

But you always surprised me, Thorin, even after decades.

Because when you recognized me, you just sighed, reaching out for me, drawing your arms around my chest and resting your head against my neck.

"I don't want to remember...", you stammered, still breathing fast, and I could tell you were only half-conscious, holding me strongly but seconds away from falling back to sleep, for you were tired and injured. "Please don't use ink, don't, I don't want to...

\- I won't...", I said softly, stroking your hair and back – you were strong and tall, well-built and hard-muscled, and yet...

And yet you were just a boy – somehow every time I had you in my arms like that, you would always be just a boy, that little boy I held close in the Hills before swearing my oath of loyalty to you...

I held you until I was sure you were asleep once more, breathing quietly in my arms, and then I laid you down and tried to get some sleep as well. In the morning your fever was gone – and it was plain you did not remember anything, because you didn't change your behaviour, still talked to me and seemed to enjoy having me at your side...

Have I hurt you, Thorin? Look – the wound on your chest is all stitched up, I did it while I was talking to you, and it's silly, really, but I am proud, because it is all even and smooth, I tried to keep the skin in a nice line, and now you barely notice how deep the wound truly is...

I even closed the one on your back – that's why I remembered that other wound, so long ago, that brought you back into my arms...

It was not so hard, after all... That's what I always thought after stitching you up – I always was so afraid to hurt you, to damage your skin even more, it frightened me more than any possible battle we fought together, and yet you never seemed to mind...

I am so glad I managed it tonight as well... It's easier to look at you now – you might be half naked and thus looking so fragile that I just want to hold you in my arms again and never let go of you, but you look whole again, and it means so much to me...

I always dreamt to make you whole again, we all did...

Come, Thorin. Let's just wipe all the blood away, once and for all, shall we? I'm going to remove your hair-clasps, to undo your braids... Mahal, how tangled they are, alright, let's leave it for later, I'm just going to take off that tiny golden chain around your neck, and your rings as well – just while I help you to wash, don't worry, you can have them back afterwards...

They are right here, on that small stone, at your side. I'm going to fetch water now, water and some soap as well, there's thorough work waiting for me here, because I want to make you shine, I want you to look as the King you truly are, I want them to look at you and think they will never see such a striking face again, that they are so lucky to be able to cast eyes upon you, even though you are dead...

I want that Elvenking to blink and take a step back, when he faces you – to be aware that you are anything but small, and easily pushed aside, that there were countless reasons for us to follow you, and that this world should grieve now that you have gone...

I want all these Men in Dale and Laketown to weep, as they watch the King of Carven Stone return to his tomb of marble, home at last, never to leave it again...

I want you to look as handsome as if you were about to be crowned – you won't have it, the coronation you deserve, because you fell trying to defend what was rightfully yours, but I want you to know that in my heart you will always be my King.

It will always be you, the one I call my King and follow blindly, the one I will love as the true brother you have been to me, because you deserved it.

I am going to make you shine, Thorin, for the days, weeks, and centuries to come, I promise you. I'll be right back.

I'll be right back. And I will make you shine, I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, again, just to thank PericulaLudus for the tattoo-topic, and to assure you all that, now that Thorin's chest is bared and that terrible Azog-wound is closed, I will be able to make Dwalin spend more time in the past and less in the present, so that this fic doesn't end as wholly tragic. Goodness, it was hard not to spoil all my Azanulbizar ideas, but I promise you I did not :p. And I'm sorry for the gore, I tried to keep it as soft as I could.
> 
> Ah and something else. I so wish Balin would have truly said that, and never set off for Moria, that I just couldn't resist writing him that way. Plus Balin always comforts me, plus I love every single speech of him in the movies, and yes Dwalin for now Balin is still there and you are not alone, so I just did it. Thanks again for reading. Much love, Meysun.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear ones - I am still alive!! I am so sorry for that long silence... but I've gone through a lot these past weeks. New trainee in a new city (well actually two, can you believe it, thank Mahal I have irregular shifts and some days off to remind me where I actually live), a lot of adaptation, two sessions of moving out with a lot of carrying... And a lot to deal with concerning flat- and flatshare issues, that are sometimes a pleasure and sometimes not. Not to speak of more serious events in my country - but here I leave the commenting to those who wish, I do not feel like it.
> 
> Somehow, though I have been more busy with the present than in years, Dwalin and Thorin never left my thoughts, and I am so happy to present the new angsty chapter of the long life of rough and soft interactions they had :). I have given up predicting what on earth I am writing into that story, I just try to keep them in character and do not always succeed, but hey - we write what we are, don't we?
> 
> I couldn't keep from Thrain but rest assured - there's no real spoiler here for my other fic I hope to return to, as soon as I can. After all, this is Dwalin's point of view, no doubt Thorin has something to add (actually no idea, we'll see when I get there). And the last part introduces someone I haven't really dwelled upon before, but that suddenly popped out and left me boucing on my heels thinking "cannot wait to write him more"!!!
> 
> So yeah. It has been a long time, but enthusiasm and ramblings are back. More notes at the end, because remember : this is me :p. "Enjoy", haha.

Warm water holds strange comfort.

We both relished it, if only half-acknowledged: of course we did, always wandering, often under rain, or worse, these snow-flakes you dreaded so much, hiding your fear behind a burning determination that would only melt as you did – in warm water.

It makes me smile, when I think about the many times, on the road, where we would finally find shelter, usually in an inn or a narrow bedchamber. You would barely be talking by then, your scowl so deep anybody in his right mind would make sure to keep safe from conversation – but I knew better.

I knew your face was hard and frowning because you were pulling at your last strengths – because the contract with these merchants or noblemen was fulfilled, our duty done and payment extracted. Then came the night we could finally take our leave, head towards our people, and allow ourselves few, but real hours of rest.

And a bath as well.

Those nights we would ask for warm water, and we did not mind the Men sniggering, clearly suggesting this was unheard-of from Dwarves, always associating us with dirt, ashes, embers and soot, just because our hands knew work.

“Go ahead.”

I was smiling already, seeing your scowl deepen – my offer was bordering on an insult, you would  _never_ bathe first, not knowing I was tired and yearning for that water too.

“Come on, Thorin. I want to take my time – feel how it is like, to fall asleep in a Mannish bathtub...”

I was grinning by then, and you were struggling, clearly torn between a glare and a smile. It had happened to you once – the second year after your father had gone, I believe... I had bathed already, had stretched myself on the bed, enjoying the rough touch of the blankets against my skin – I did not pull on my shirt, not at once, because one of the things I loved most was to feel the fire’s gentle warmth on my bare back and arms...

Sometimes I would even do it in the forges – what did I care for Balin’s scolding about safety and elementary precautions, I was alive, Mahal, and the warmth of the forge’s fire on my skin always felt like life’s stroking itself...

So I was sitting on the bed, barefoot, just wearing my breeches – not even thinking, or just thinking in fragments. The door was locked. I was awake, and my axes on the ground close to me, ready if needed...

And you had let yourself down in the bathtub, having drawn the wooden screen they used back then, to give the room an illusion of privacy... I could hear you move, stripping yourself from your clothes, getting down in the water – and there would be that soft sigh, as you would let warm water cover you, rinsing the dust and weariness of the road away.

Soft watering sounds – washing your body, rinsing your hair. The smell of soap as well, honey-flavoured, a small gift from Dís for the road... Soft sounds fading slowly as you grew still, leaning against the warm enamel...

And then nothing.

Suddenly I heard nothing, and that  realization brought forth beads of  cold sweat on my back and arms, chasing away the warmth of the fire –  _he’s not moving anymore, Mahal only knows what happened right there behind that accursed screen he always has to draw, he’s bleeding to death in that bathtub,_ _not breathing_ _but not on my watch, not on my watch_ ...

I covered you in wood that day – in my haste to reach you I just broke it down, that wooden screen, it was faster and I did not even really think about it, it just stood between you and me and you were in danger.

But you were not.

You had fallen asleep, the weeks and nights on the road finally taking their toll, and the deafening noise, the clatter of wood meeting water and above all me calling out your name with a frenzy bordering on panic, it woke you up swiftly enough – all your instincts returning with a vengeance, because in the blink of an eye you were out of the water, out of reach of the shattered wooden pieces, facing me with your hand against my throat, your gaze only mellowing when you recognized me.

“Dwalin, what in Durin’s name -

\- It was... I could not hear you anymore. You were not moving.”

I was stammering, actually, I was still cold and rigid with fear, because somehow this was my worst nightmare, you stretched there, before me, cold and unmoving...

Just like now.

But that day you were not – that day you were warm, and so alive, your hair dripping and your skin still wet, facing me with your hand that had left my throat for my shoulder, and I could see so many shades in your eyes...

Disbelief and a tinge of fear that lingered – because we had both fought for too many years. But also worry, and concern – and guilt, that guilt I hated so much and wanted to erase from your face, rip off like an old, unwanted cloth...

“Dwalin, I just fell asleep...”

You said those words softly, shaking your head, eager to calm me down – it was unusual for me to lose my nerve like this, and that day, Mahal forgive me, fear just got the better of me and I was so ashamed...

“Sorry...”, I said gruffly, and then I turned from you – you were naked after all, and just because you had forgotten did not mean I was allowed to watch.

You let out your breath audibly, and I heard you move behind me, drying yourself in quick moves, slipping into the first clothes you could grab, and then facing me again in that small room, backed up by the fire, barefoot and dressed in a loose shirt.

“I’ll explain to the innkeeper.”, I muttered. “I’ll pay.

\- I do not care.”

You had this harsh tone of voice that spoke of real concern – often it looked a lot like anger, and that day I did not really know how to deal with it, I just grabbed my shirt and pulled it on, avoiding to look at you.

“I do not care for that stupid wooden screen. Improved in being broken, that craftsmanship’s not even worth being mentioned.”

You were still facing me – standing, while I was sitting on the bed.

“Why, Dwalin?”

Your voice was soft again, and this time it sounded less sure, but I kept staring at the floor, stubbornly, brushing the hilt of my axe with my foot.

“Have you so little faith in me...?

\- ‘course not!”

My answer was as rough as your last sentence had been shy, almost inaudible.

“It was stupid. I am sorry. Are we done?”

You did not answer. You just stood still for a while – you did not like long talks, or awkward situations, they made you feel insecure, and in the end you just gave another soft sigh that had nothing to do with bliss anymore. You picked up the broken screen’s pieces, placed them against the wall and got dressed, quietly.

Braided your hair quickly, picking up the hair clasps you had carefully placed on a chair in the corner, and then left the room.

And I just lay down on the bed with a groan, furious against myself and trying to calm down my heartbeats and my breathing.

“They had stew, and fried ribs with potatoes. I took a bit of each. There’s ale as well.”

I sat up, only to see you were closing the door with a swift move of your elbow, for your hands were full. You were balancing a plate heavily loaded with two full tankards of ale, and plates that smelled rather appealingly, and set it down on the floor, in front of the fireplace, just like this.

And on the ground you settled as well, quietly, and I could see the faint silvery glimmer on your hand as you reached out for one of the tankards, handing it to me.

I joined you, then. Took a deep sip of ale and let it drench my throat, thinking it felt good, almost as good as hot water on my skin, and the warmth of the fire against my back.

We didn’t talk, we just ate, and this time I was the one feeling weary. It was the fear, of course – that sudden dread that had run through my very bones and left me strangely empty, just as I feel now...

But that day you were here. Took the tankard from my hand once it was empty, removed my plate and then handed me my pipe, wordlessly – and it felt good, that warm tickle in my throat, the taste of smoke and dried leaves, and the silent way it allowed to let out deep breaths...

“No smoke-rings?”

It was darker now, and you were closer to me. And as I shook my head you leaned your arm against my shoulder, having finished your own pipe, watching me blow out the remnants of mine, as my body slowly relaxed against yours.

Your hands were on your lap, your fingers slightly curled up, hiding your rings from view – only that tiny glimmer, every now and then as you moved them, absentmindedly. And in the end I laid my palm upon your forearm and held it. Tightly. Searching for the warmth of your skin that smelt faintly of soap, of rich smoke and of you.

“I thought you were unconscious.”

The words came out raspy, almost like smoke – but I always spoke the truth. I knew I had to be the one talking, because there were things you simply could not do.

And as you leaned your head against my shoulder, I went on:

“I thought you were injured. Bleeding.”

My fingers tightened their grip around your forearm, and I whispered:

“Dead.”

I did not look at you, you did not look at me. You just stayed close, and I could almost feel them, the conflicting emotions going on behind your calm face that still rested against my arm. Your shoulders sagged slowly, and your forearm went completely still under my fingers.

It was a never ending argument between us both, was it? You would not have minded death, not really, not in those years – there had been a tiny change for the better, lately, something I could not really explain at first, because you kept it private, so very private that I had to confront you to find it out, in the end...

I was so distrustful of those you let close than were not family or kin... Even the Halfling – he did not get to my heart as he got to yours, somehow. Not as quickly, not as wholly – oh Thorin, you did not love easily, did you? But when you did...

See, that's where we were so different... You shielded yourself, cared for nearly everyone but could not love more than a few, carefully chosen souls because it just meant too much, it made you vulnerable because they were so strong, the feelings harboured in that chest that feels so cold under my fingers now.

And I cared for almost nobody save you, your kin, my brother and the few friends I call mine, but I never was afraid of getting closer to others – we didn't have to talk, but I liked to listen to them, it amused me, I always found it better not to stay brooding alone, much better to sit together around a fire, have some lads begin a song that would only end with empty tankards...

So, the few times when someone unexpectedly found the way to your heart, I was always distrustful and wary. Because I knew how much it exposed you, and did not want them to hurt you. And it always infuriated you – in the end it would always come back to these words, sometimes spoken, sometimes not: _have you so little faith in me_?

Of course I had... But what did you expect, Thorin, I just knew how much strength it cost you, to keep balanced, to try and find some worth – _any_ worth in your own life, and don't you dare denying it... Don't you dare...

You were not harming yourself – your sense of duty was far too strong. Neither did you give us any proof that you were seeking out death – it was rather your absence of fear, when it came to deadly situations, and the quiet lack of desire with which you faced life, that alarmed us, especially after war.

We just wanted you to feel worthy, to see what a wonderful friend and brother you were, what a truly great King you embodied – so brave, so selfless, so strong and yet so caring, because you strove so hard, because without you we would all have crumbled to pieces, because we _needed_ you, Thorin, and still do, oh Mahal...

But you – you just looked at me, with that calm glance that told me you were half-gone already. Ready to go, at any occasion, if I wasn’t keeping watch closely enough.

Or so I thought, those years after we had all lost your father, before Fíli and Kíli kindled the fire in you once more... And yet...

“I would not do this to you...”, you replied quietly, and when I turned my head I saw you were looking at the ground, your locks drawn like a curtain against your profile.

“I would not do this to _any_ of you. I just fell asleep. I am sorry.”

I let you brush my arm, then, drawing your arm around my back, dragging me against your side so as to hold me, and then you added softly:

“I am sorry.”

I nodded, then, allowing myself to be held, for a while – I was so tired, that evening, so exhausted, it had taken all of my energy to voice that fear, that fear I had of losing you, and that has now become real...

I don't blame you, Thorin. I would be such a poor friend if I did – you gave your life to kill that Orc, and I know you gave it willingly, that you were glad for such a death because it held a purpose, because it was a way to wipe out some of the deeds you thought yourself obliged to honour...

I don't blame you for that only promise you broke – that you would never do that to me, or to any of us... No one can promise not to die, no one, and this we both knew, we could only promise each other to do our best so as not to leave the other behind...

That day I was glad it was out, despite my shame and awkwardness... Because I was afraid for you, those years, so scared – I barely dared to leave you alone, and it had nothing to do with faith, or strength... I just knew there was nothing to hold you back save your own sense of duty, and where is duty in the darkest hours of the night, ripped out of sleep by nightmares, or after days and days of hard work leading only to an empty house – Dís in a house of her own, your father gone, everybody gone but you...

Every day and every night, I had that fear, ever since we had all returned, without your father. Ever since I had seen that look in your eyes, silently screaming that it had to end, that you could not take it anymore, that you would not bear another loss, that you had known, that you had always _known_ but that it had happened nonetheless...

“No”, you simply said, balling your fists and shaking your head.

And when Balin made a move to embrace you, you took a step back and just repeated it, your voice hoarse and broken:

“No.

\- Lad, there are no words...”

And there truly were none. To describe that journey, the fierce, desperate battle that kept raging in Thráin's haggard face – the way he fell apart every day that took him further away from you... You – grounding him, holding him against you almost every night, bearing his struggles and more than often, the frantic blows he would hammer against your body, taking you for another or simply letting his shame and hurt and anger loose...

I have held him, some nights. I have felt his blows too – but the worst were his ragged words. Calling out for his One, every single night, but also screaming in fear because Thrór haunted his dreams, and always waking up tear-drenched, searching for his _dashtith_ he had been forced to hand out to the flames...

How could you bear it? How was it even possible for you to step out of your room the day that followed such a night – slightly pale for sure, definitely thinner than you should, but otherwise seemingly strong and collected...?

We did not tell you everything, of course, didn't tell you that during the journey Thráin's sobs had also been for his _dashat_ , that he kept calling for you, sometimes even speaking Raven-tongue, making us unable to understand what exactly he yearned for, only knowing that somehow it was you...

“He's dead. Thorin is dead.

\- No, Thráin. He is alive. You made him stay, you made him stay with Dís – with your _mamarlûna_ , in the Blue Mountains where the River flows, to guard your people until you will return. To help her keeping everyone safe.

\- _Mamarlûna_...”

That word never failed to calm him down, somehow... He would voice it dreamily, tasting the syllabes on his tongue, and his hands slowly released their grip around Balin's forearm – and then he would shake himself, shield his features in a commanding expression that looked even more wrong in that drawn face...

“Come. We go East. The sun is up already.”

But this we did not tell you – and perhaps we should have, perhaps it would have helped, to know you never left his thoughts, despite the pain...

Yet hat evening, our tale was closer to a report than anything – leaving off emotions, only keeping the facts. The journey had been a disaster, ambushes, fights and catastrophes succeeding each other, and in the end Thráin had disappeared. His tracks vanished steps away from the campfire, and when we had tried to follow them, the path seemed to be crowding with Orcs... We had tried – stubbornly fought them down, but it was soon plain that we didn't even know where to look.

You didn't ask a single question. You faced us, standing at first, but when Balin had to clear his throat, dry with speaking and exhaustion, you made him pause with a slight gesture.

“Forgive me...”, you voiced, and they felt wrong, these words in your mouth when it should have been us, begging for forgiveness, for we had lost our King.

“That tale can wait, surely... Sit down.”

The effort in these words was palpable, but you knew how to will your body and mind into action, even when your heart only screamed to be heard as well. And so I had to watch you come towards my brother, place your hands upon his forearms so as to remove the travelling cloak he didn't even have time to shed, and take it off for him.

“Sit down, Balin.

\- Laddie...”

There were tears in my brother's eyes, suddenly, and you bent to touch foreheads with him, the gesture more eloquent than words. He was smaller, always had been, but he was stout and strong – and I saw relief flood your face when your arms circled his chest and found his body whole and unharmed.

“I am glad to have you back”, you voiced, quietly – and there was a painful intensity in these words that made my soul ache.

Balin embraced you, his arms around your waist, and then he broke away, his eyes searching your face, full of care and worry.

“So am I, lad – you have grown thin as a blade... You haven't been ill, surely? The winter was quite rough this year, they told us...

\- No. I am fine, Balin. These months have been busy, that's all – I have been trying to follow your advice and Men seem to have found out they _could_ use our services, after all...”

You almost smiled – and my brother nodded, letting you step out of his embrace and busy yourself with pouring us something strong to warm our throats. We had both sat down and I eyed you closely – and Balin was right, you were thin, your clothes carefully hiding it away but your fingers more slender than I remembered them.

I watched you open the door of a closet, frown, close it and search for another before putting some bread on the table, and then do exactly the same with the cheese and ham. But it was when I saw you try to open a drawer and then cursing quietly under your breath, leave the kitchen, return with a small key you turned swiftly, before finally taking out knives and forks, that I knew just how much was _wrong_.

You were not fine. You were not even eating – to the point you had forgotten where you kept your things, and even as we ate and drank, I saw you taking only sips of ale, every now and then, and a tiny slice of bread you did not even bother to cover with cheese.

And then you rested your arms on the table, tiredly, your face drawn, watching us eat and only moving to pour us more ale.

“Dís is away”, you added, unexpectedly. “I am afraid I have not much to offer. They both left to visit one of Jóli's aunts – I forgot which one, but they are to stay a month. If he bears her constant meddling into whatever he seems to be doing, that is...”

We both smiled, but I crossed my brother's gaze and found worry mirrored there. It was unlike you, to talk lightly, especially when it was not really needed. And now that our hunger was stilled, now that the first dread of telling you of your father's fate had passed, we could clearly see that these past months had been anything but kind with you.

“Laddie, what's wrong...?”, Balin asked, gently, and he slid his hand across the table to put it on your forearm, half-expecting you to pull away.

But you did not. You just looked up, and your face seemed so tired, the gleam in your eyes all but gone now that the aftermath of the news we brought took their toll.

“Nothing”, you voiced. “I am fine, Balin, do not worry.”

_Do not ask._

My brother nodded – he knew you well enough to see you would not answer that evening, if you would answer at all... Instead he simply resumed his tale, leaving his hand on your forearm, brushing it every now and then as he spoke.

When he finished you were pale, and your face was hard and motionless.

“There is no hope, then...?”, you asked, and your voice was low and void of any passion.

“Not enough for us to keep searching”, Balin answered, truthfully, and you closed your eyes.

“Yes. Forgive me. I did not mean to imply you didn't try hard enough.

\- I know, lad...”

My brother's voice was earnest and full of concern.

“Thorin, you don't have to apologize for words, not with us – it is all right you should feel angry, sad, even confused...

\- I don't feel anything at all.”

You had removed your arm from his grasp, clutching the edge of the table instead – facing us both, and there was the faintest trace of disbelief in your gaze.

“I wish I would. I suppose I should. But the truth is...” - you whispered, clearly taken aback by your own lack of reaction - “I always knew this would happen, one day. It was only a matter of time. He was never happy here, was never himself again ever since Erebor fell, perhaps even before, and war just made it worse. I suppose I should be glad his troubles are over – but Balin... it would be easier if I just had the certitude... that he was dead.”

You had grown even paler while you spoke, and these words drew a smile on your lips, that had nothing to do with joy, or amusement, and looked like a wince.

“What kind of a son does this make me?”

There were tears in your eyes, they welled up as realization hit in – despite your calm words, despite anything, and we had to watch you rise your hands, press your palms against your eyes and wipe them, quietly, struggling to even out your breath.

“Seven times seven moons.”, you finally managed to say, once you had found your voice back. “I owe it to him, Balin, I will tell them tomorrow. I hope they will all understand.”

It was the longest mourning period possible. Almost four years, during which Thráin still would be our King in Exile, even gone and missing, while you would go on fulfilling his duties, as you had truly done for decades already.

“Of course they will, lad. Of course they will.”

We had all stood up and you nodded, repressing a shudder.

“You must be tired – you all need your rest. I have kept you from it long enough.

\- Nonsense”, I growled – it was probably the first word I voiced aloud ever since we had entered your house, and it startled you.

“Nonsense”, I repeated, forcefully, pulling you in a bone-crushing hug – since you wouldn't do it, wouldn't even touch me even though it had been months, months where I had missed you so wholly that it ached even as I held you.

You stiffened, didn't return the embrace at first, but when I crossed my arms on your back, in that silent gesture that always meant _I have got you, no matter what_ , you gave a choked sound and drew your arms around my chest, your fingers clinging to my tunic.

I looked at Balin, and he smiled sadly, taking his cloak and leaving. The door fell shut with a soft click but you heard it, nonetheless – and after a few, shuddering breaths I felt them, the first broken sobs telling me so clearly you were anything but fine.

“Hey”, I whispered, bending my head so as to rest it against yours, and allowing my arms to tighten their embrace around you so that there was no space left between our bodies. “It's good to have you back.”

Your fingers shifted – I knew their moves by heart, you had always done it that way, clinging to my tunic to anchor yourself to me, and then shifting their grasp so that you would make sure I stayed.

I didn't ask anything – I just held you. Until your sobs ebbed, until you were so calm and still in my arms I almost thought you asleep, but you were not.

In the end we spent the night on the floor, spreading my fur coat there and sliding down against the wall, as close to stone as possible, still holding each other tightly – just like boys, because boys had the right to do so when warrior and King could not.

I think I fell asleep almost at once, holding you tightly against me – and what woke me up in the morning was the cold, for you had left my arms. You had left, and when I got up I could hear you move in your room, the faint rustling of fabric and the soft sound of your belt-clasp.

I sat up against the wall and waited – and when you entered the room you were fastening your arm-guards. You had dressed with care, had pulled out one of the few adorned tunics you had, and the belt your father had made for you, after your old belt from Erebor had threatened to fall apart. Your jerkin was plain, as always, but it only seemed to underline how truly handsome you were – it matched your hair, made your eyes stand out, but you could not care less and neither could I, that day.

I looked at you, a Dwarrow in his prime, your face so striking because with that short beard and your lean, tall frame you had something of Dís, something almost feminine that had nothing to do with delicacy, or frailty, but that could definitely trouble more than just Dwarrowdams – and already had, to your utter confusion.

But this was the outer shell, and inside – inside, here in your own rooms, all I could see was that it was so hard, that the darkness in your soul was so crushing, so overwhelming that it cost you almost all your strength to fight it down, because you _had_ to fight it, _would_ fight it...

“I have to meet the Elders...”, you simply said, and I nodded, extending my hand.

You smiled – a worn-out half-smile that was still more than expected, and then you helped me on my feet, letting me drag you against me one last time.

“Get some proper rest”, you whispered. “Take anything you want – there's food, there's drink, and the sheets in my bed are clean.

\- Yeah. There's just my mum missing, right? Nonsense. I go with you.”

I didn't pick up on what you said. I didn't ask why the drawer with the knives was so carefully locked, why your house seemed unused even though it remained clean. I didn't ask why you still did not eat, even before you headed out, ready to face a world where your father was no more.

I just tried to be there, every day until Dís returned and only had to take a look at you before she decided to keep you at her house for a full month, forcing food and rest upon your body almost against your will – her own way to face grief, as always taking care of the treasures she still had.

And I saw it – that anguish when night closed in, when the seemingly unending tasks of the day were close to be done, when the moment of returning to your own house drew nearer. On the mornings I would find you unable to eat, your stomach so tight that the mere thought of bread and tea made you shudder.

Yet you would accept them a few hours later, once work had warmed up your body, making you forget these empty rooms where your father's ghost still seemed to be hovering. During the day I would watch you eat the only full meal you would grant yourself – the afternoon found you almost peaceful, but with sunset the anguish returned and you would close up again, losing yourself in work with almost reckless energy.

Until night came, leaving you exhausted yet unable to rest, empty yet unable to bear the thought of food, even at our place. One night Balin insisted in keeping you for dinner and filled your plate – and I watched you eat, slowly, politely, thanking him afterwards and even accepting a pipe with us. But at some point you excused yourself, under a pretext, and because I was anxious about you I followed, discreetly – and there you were, in the remotest corner of our backyard, between weeds, throwing up every bite you had swallowed, trying to fight it down, or at least to be quick and silent. Closing your eyes once it was done, leaning against the old chestnut tree, hitting it with the back of your head, once, twice, your fists balled, whispering a curse between bloodless lips.

I was so afraid. I was so afraid, Thorin, because I did not know how to help.

And that night in the inn – not long afterwards, barely a year – the fear that had never left my heart ever since I had watched you return to your empty house, smiling at me and assuring me you were fine, that fear finally found its way out.

Your arms moved, searching for knots in the stiff mass of my back, and I gave a groan when your knuckles began to rub circles into my skin – something you had not done for years, not since war, where it had often been the only soft moment in days of fighting and endless night-watches.

“Boy, you _are_ sorry...”

You smiled, and when I looked up you gently touched my forehead with yours.

“I won't leave like that, Dwalin. I promise. Not when I have you.”

Why is it I have to recall these words now – now they almost seem to mock me, when they brought me so much joy and peace back then? Yet I know you meant them – I know you believed it, had managed to fight back most of the darkness that was weighing you down, silently, unobtrusively, and _on your own_...

And I was so proud of you, so darn proud, and relieved... It had required so much strength, surely it was a proof you were not to be bent easily, that I could stop my never-ending watch and fall back to trusting you wholly... Not as my king or my brother-in-arms, there I never stopped trusting you, but for taking care of yourself, fight for your own well-being and not only your people's and kin's.

Warm water holds strange comfort, but not today.

Today it just feels like the tears I cannot shed – and as I rinse the sponge and gently begin to rub it against your forehead, my fingers stroking your blood-coated hair, and watch the drops of water slide against your pale skin, along your temple and cheekbone, it seems to me that you are weeping as well.

I am sitting on the stone, next to you. I have one hand against your neck, cradling your head, and the other is rinsing blood and dirt away.

I have done it before – cleaning your face from grime, wiping your sweat, but this time it's different. I don't have to worry about hurting you, to search for that silent intake of breath or that way you fingers had to curl on themselves, whenever my moves stirred the pain in your wounds. I don't have to talk, either...

Because that was how we coped, somehow, whenever circumstances had us both exactly like that – you injured or sick, lying helpless and weak under my hands, and I sitting close to you, or the other way round.

I would talk, not much, but enough to keep our thoughts from what I was doing. And you would hum, whenever it was my turn to look up at you through pain or fever. Sing softly, in that special voice you would only bestow upon me, or Dís and her sons, whenever it was needed...

Today I don't have to talk, but that's still what I do, strangely. Not to try to make you forget your pain, but to keep myself from acknowledging mine.

I hope you don't mind, Thorin. I'm not so much of a talker, outside of here – I think I've never talked so much in all my life, but then I always talked to you, and you never seemed to mind.

The wound on your forehead is narrow, just a small line above your brow now that it has stopped bleeding, and I gently follow it with my finger – blade wound, probably the tip, you must have managed to step back partly, but still... That's unlike you, Thorin. Just shows how exhausted you must have been – not sleeping, not eating, exactly like decades before...

No, I'm not mocking you. I'm sorry for that wound, silly, because you didn't need that scar, you have enough as it is, just look at your chest and back, and your forearms...

The sponge follows your eyebrows now, gently sweeps across your eyes – but that part is almost clean, there's no blood or dirt on your eyelids, in your eyelashes, and I know it has to do with the clear marks on your cheek... That clearly show me you must have wept, that there have been tears in your last moments – and it breaks my heart.

Yet the Halfling was adamant – you also smiled. That's what he told me, at once – because somehow he must have spotted just how much I had lost, already in Erebor, when you were still alive and raving...

He said you smiled, that your eyes were warm and seeing – that there had also been urge and that words had dripped from your lips like blood, but that your last thought had been for love and friendship, and that he was sure I was part of it...

Come, let me wipe your nose, you hothead. Saves me from wiping mine, Mahal knows I need it – I'm absurdly glad that little Hobbit found you, in the end... That you were not alone, actually, somehow I keep seeing you fighting that Orc, dying there with that blade between your ribs, but no – there was something afterwards, someone, even though it hurts and always will that it was not me...

There you are, almost done. Your cheeks and chin, and beard – that beard that won't grow, you had your will there, Thorin... There's only your lips left, your lips that could express so much with a smile, with the thin, uncompromising line you would summon when pressing them together, whenever they parted slightly in surprise, or in laughter, or curled in disgust when it came to that Elvenking...

Sorry, Thorin. I have to open them a bit, there's blood on your teeth and I have to wipe your mouth, I want to think I somehow made you breathe freely again, even though I know it's a lie...

There, I won't force my way in. It doesn't hurt, does it? It's just my thumb, and some water, see, it's all cleaned and now I can seal your lips again, wipe the cloth against their soft curve and see your face rid of blood at last.

There's so much peace... So much peace, now that it's only pale skin and dark hair – but your gaze is missing, that's what made you so handsome, these bright, night-like eyes contrasting so sharply with your black locks...

And as my hand gets down, gently wiping your neck, I make sure your hair stays out of the way. It's tangled, it's dirty, but I want to leave it for the end. Because it's still there for everyone to see, and that it's barely second to your eyes when it comes to beauty – always was, and always will. You have no idea what a privilege it was to be able to stroke it, to have my fingers run between your locks, every now and then – you always thought it was my way to soothe you, don't you? Didn't know it was also the best way I found to soothe me...

I let the sponge run against the line of muscles on your neck, until I reach the soft spot between your collarbones. That precise spot that always drove me mad – because with that short beard of yours it remained bare, for every blade to reach it, ready to drown yourself in your own blood...

But you always laughed, your eyes a challenge – and there is no scar there, not here nor on your neck... Oh no, you were not one to let your head be severed just like this, were you, Thorin? My worthy shield-brother, my boundless warrior, my everlasting light in the many shades of battle and war...

The sponge is red, I think I have to change the water – you have bled so much, Thorin, I have been wiping your chest and flank, but all I manage is to spread it... It's cold, as well, and my fingers are numb, just let me get more, they have brought me enough, down here, in these big metallic jars we use in the forges, that help keeping water warm...

There, look. It's all warm, and clean, just as you like it, enough to make me relax at last... It feels so peaceful, sitting there at your side, letting the sponge draw soft curves against your skin, making sure you don't slide or hit the stone too roughly whenever I have to sit you up...

I have used some of Oín's salts, this time – I didn't for your face, I had this absurd thought that it would sting your eyes, isn't that silly now? But for your body I mixed them in the water, and they smell faintly of pine, and honey, I know you'd have enjoyed it...

I follow the curves of your arm, the crook in your elbow, and when I reach your left forearm I gently lay it on my lap and take all my time, because I know you hated them, these scars that earned you your battle-name, partly erasing the silver pattern of that old, more private wound you owed to the Dragon's breath...

I stroke your forearm, and I wince when I stretch it, gingerly, because there it is, that little angle of your elbow that never fully vanished and that no one ever noticed save those who knew how badly your bones had been broken. How they hurt, these scars on your forearm – deep wounds loaded with wooden splinters, and those marks Oín had to leave so as to save your arm when infection began its rage there...

It doesn't show, on your fingers, and on your palm – all the small fractures your hand and wrist have suffered, that day, because Oín strove hard, to bend the bones back, to make sure they grew back the way they should, so that your left hand was still able to hold hammer, sword, and strings...

Few among us know about what you always kept hidden, about the slight numbness in your fourth and fifth finger... Because your nerve had been damaged, when that Orc shattered your elbow – and it never ceased to amaze me how you still kept all your battle skills honed, how it just never showed, except in your private circle on particularly exhausting days, where you would forget to focus on your grasp, and occasionally let things fall, causing Fíli and Kíli to tease you, and your sister to circle your waist, gently, and press a quiet kiss on your knuckles...

I'm not sure Fíli and Kíli even knew... Just Oín, Dís, Balin and me, because you hated that weakness, and everything it reminded you of... While I just loved you more for it – I have always loved your forearm for you, do you know that? Because it was a symbol of your will, of your strength, of the way you always fought to get back on your feet, determined not to let hurt and numbness win...

That's why I stroke it now, and seem unable to let go of it... It has always been such a tiny thread between despair and awe – how many times have I seen you brought low, thought that we had reached it, the point where darkness would win and snatch you away from me, and then witness you stagger back on your feet, still there, still fighting...

But not today.

Not today, Thorin. Today I am the one pressing my lips against your knuckles – she's not there, yet I'm sure she would have done it, even with her sons gone, she just loved you so much, was always aware that you could have left her side much sooner...

Have I ever thanked you, for being humble and strong enough to _lock that drawer_...? To make sure you stayed, when all you wanted was to leave, when it would have been so much easier – lower yourself in warm water slowly turning to crimson, and bleed out there, silently, without a witness, alone...

But not you. Never you. I know you have thought about it, I know how shaken you were when you discovered just how much Dwarves and Dwarrows ended up doing exactly this, because they could not handle the images in their head, the never-ending aftermath of that terrible war, and the carnage before the gates of Moria...

You always refused to act as you should have, as a King, according to tradition – never denied them the right of a proper burial, never stripped them of their honour...

 _His life has been spent nobly. He was a devoted Dwarf, who never shrunk away from duty and battle, and who will be mourned by his family, his friends and his people. May he find peace in_ _after_ _life with Mahal's blessing_.

I have heard you voice it every single time – to the families first, distraught, horrified and often clinging to your words in a desperate attempt to forget how it ended... And to the entire Ered Luin, at every funeral, taking full responsability for that soft lie – but was it truly a lie...? Can someone be judged only by the way it ended...? Does one final, desperate move have to cast a light on a whole life of striving, of loving, of breathing, of suffering, of moving on, of breaking, of fighting...?

No, Thorin.

Back then I might not have fully understood, but now I do. You knew how hard it was yourself, how that fragile balance could be broken in a few heartbeats – and you never allowed them to be blamed for it, these poor Dwarrows, always mourned for them and the pain it showed.

Always cared about those who were still there, even maimed and broken beyond repair – Bifur could fill volumes about it, if talking and sharing his thoughts was not a constant, grim battle... The way you looked at him, touched him, your hands moving softly as you framed all the words you could not say – sometimes he did not even let you finish, he just grabbed your fingers between his and squeezed them, tightly, his eyes full of tears and frustration, and then your thumb would follow the harsh line of his knuckles, waiting for him to calm down, always looking at him, never snatching your hands away...

_Beautiful._

I remember him signing the word, his black eyes calmer – softer, as he slowly let go of your fingers, allowing his other hand to brush your ring gently.

 _Fitting_.

He didn't pick the ring bearing Durin's crest – that ring your father entrusted to you before he left, telling you silently he wouldn't come back. Neither did he choose the small, tiny ring you carried with you ever since it had been given to you in Erebor.

He picked up Itô's ring – speaking of long-past battles, of history that never stopped repeating itself, of worthy souls that went on fighting, not only in war but also in the terrible, dark aftermath, for those still living. Just as you did.

_Very rare. Very precious. Take care._

That's what Bifur signed then – and the way he looked at you, that accursed-axe still showing in his skull, a visible injury that made everyone forget there was a deeper, more terrible wound buried underneath, that no one save fellow-warriors could ever begin to understand...

The way these dark eyes found yours, one might think it was just the babbling of a toy-maker that had basically _gone soft_ in the head, overwhelmed with the honour of spending a moment with his King – but you both knew this wasn't the case. That in this precise moment, you were the one holding on to him – that these kind words of wisdom and care had nothing to do with your ring, but engulfed your whole being, because Bifur knew.

His strong hands wrapped your wrists gently, preventing you from signing back – he just held you, telling you silently that he understood, begging you to hold on because you were worth it, and smiling at you when he saw the faint glimmer in your eyes, not letting go of you at once, allowing that silent, unique tear to slide down your cheek.

_Not alone._

And with these words he let go, busying himself with carving wood again – and he went on carving while we spoke to his family, listened to Bofur's chatter and accepted a warm, slightly sweet roll from Bombur... But when we left he shoved something in my hand, briskly – and had it not been him I would have batted his arm away, but Bifur was Bifur and I had begun to know him well.

It was a carved Raven, wings spread wide-open, made of a dark, rich wood that must have been reserved for special occasions. There were tiny pearls where the eyes belonged, and he had picked them carefully, choosing them night-blue, almost matching yours.

He shoved it in my hand, and turned away – and I doubt he truly knew what he was doing, but they _say_ perception is often keener in those whose mind is working slightly differently, that they have access to thoughts and intuition in a way that is still strange to us...

_Trust him. He'll fly again one day. He is strong, he's handsome, he's precious, he's free. He's not yours to keep. He'll find the way out on his own. He's not alone. Neither are you. Thank you. Keep faith._

It could have meant so much... It does mean so much... Even now... I have it with me – all these years it has never left the small leather pouch I carry around my neck. So small that it's almost unnoticeable, yet containing the few treasures I cannot part with.

That Raven made of wood, that spoke of silent love all around you, and inside you. A dried white flower I managed to coat in stone, so that it would never wither – always look like the diamonds in her raven hair, that day where I finally saw her happy... And a thread from Balin's tunic, even now, even at my age, because he's my brother and always will be.

I pull it out and there it is – carefully carved, almost looking like ebony, or rather onyx, in the faded light of candles... I gently lay it upon your heart – there you have it, the tattoo you never got, because you never wanted to remember, never thought yourself worthy enough to let life and love leave your mark upon your body.

It does look beautiful, on your bare chest – it is small but its shape is clearly visible against your pale skin, and somehow it helps, and soothes, just like Bifur's gaze somehow always managed to do so with you. And me.

And as I go on wiping your chest, gently following your ribs who have endured so much – shattered at Azanulbizar because your bones were still not fully grown and hardened back then, cracked more than once, and finally broken again between the teeth of that infamous Warg under those pine-trees – as I finally wash all the blood away, leaving only bruises that will never manage to heal now...

As my hand finds your stomach and settles against it – finding hard muscles, feeling the line of uneven scars that never damaged more than your skin, thank Mahal...

As my fingers follow the scar on your right flank, find your hipbone and remember that day in Dunland we heard you scream and found you clutching your side, fingers red with blood and unable to get up because that _axe-cut_ had reached you bone – and I remember the fear in your eyes, the way you shuddered against me, clinging to your wound while Frerin tied a cloth around your waist, letting us drag you up, walking a few steps and then passing out, silently, between our arms, as the pain became too much...

As I gently lay my palm against your skin and recall how much pain this body endured, how much blood it spilled – I look at that tiny wooden Raven on your chest and my mind recalls Bifur's words, so long ago.

 _Not alone_.

Never alone, thank Mahal. And not mine to keep, Thorin... Not anymore, not now you have spread your wings and left for that last, well-deserved journey.

And I have faith in you. I know you will make it – will enter the Halls a true son of Durin, because one is not to be judged by a last, desperate move, no, not in this life and least of all in the next, where it is said we all finally see clearly...

The Raven lies there, on your chest, its wings spread and its eyes so bright – and I take your hand in my own, washing your fingers gently, one by one, removing the crust of blood under your nails and lying them back against the stone, taking a look at their perfect shape, at the grace not even death stole away from you...

And when it's done I look at you – lying there with your upper-body uncovered, your hair spread against the stone, matted and dirty, but luxurious still... I look at all these angry lines upon your skin – the old ones, and the fresh, unforgiving ones... and I cannot help thinking that I still find you perfect.

That I have never seen such a handsome body in my life, and never will again, because I love every inch of it and will never stop missing it.

Never.

_Very rare. Very precious. Take care._

Take care, sparrow. Enjoy the wind in your wings – and let me believe I will follow, one day, that you will be there to welcome me and that once more, I'll be able to close my arms around you and feel you there against my chest, warm and aware and finally _there_.

And don't begrudge me that childish move, before I go and search for the clothes Balin and Glóin have carefully picked up for you... Don't shake you head because I take him back, my tiny Raven, and stuff him once more where he belongs, until the day Mahal will be kind enough to let me follow you one last time.

In that leather pouch, against my chest. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yes, I know this was long. It kept pulling in a thousand different directions, but that's because of Thorin's scars - how on earth am I to limit myself to a few memories when there are so many...? I didn't really plan to allude to what I call privately "Thorin's blackest years" before I reach that part in my other fic, but in the end I did. These are the years where he is completely alone, because his sister has married and his father is first with him, but crumbling away, and then gone without hope of ever returning. I know Thorin is strong, and hard, and probably doesn't look like this when I write him with Dwalin - but then in my headcanon they are mamarrakhûn, and Dwalin is precisely there for these moments behind the façade, which is why I just chose to write them as I felt it.
> 
> I also know that it's perhaps far-stretched for Thorin to have any suicidial thoughts, but for me I don't see him *not* having them at some point in his life, when he's at his lowest. And then - it allowed me to think about that theme, in a fic that already deals with the terrible shock it is to see a life end so brutally, and without any worthy reason. I have particularly enjoyed writing Dwalin's musings about that - because surely a warrior knows as much as a healer how fragile and precious a life is.
> 
> Bifur's words are my answer to what has happened in my country. I won't say much more, just a few sentences in this beautiful world of words, where people know how much joy we can bring in simply writing things to others, and saying them... or listening to them. We are all very rare and very precious, and deserve to be taken care of and to take care of each other as long as we are here.
> 
> And with these (commonplace but heartfelt) words I am gone, till the next time - hopefully in my other fic and in Dunland for new adventures :)!!
> 
> Thanks for reading and not abandonning these fics, much love, Meysun.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear ones - it's the last you will hear from me... for this year at least :). I want to thank you all, so deeply, for the joy you bring to me every time I see that someone among you has read, favourited or followed my stories. Every time I get a PM, or a review, every time you tell me something about your own feelings, making me see that it is possible to share thoughts, enthusiasms and day-dreams.
> 
> You are all amazing, and I am so glad we met :). I wish you all a wonderful new beginning for 2016. May you be blessed with joy, health and success, and enough strength to make sure to keep there, as you are, loved and thriving.
> 
> See you next year - and no, my good resolution *was not* to keep away from the angst and drama :p. Much love, take care, Meysun.

I kept my promise, Thorin.

There you are, dressed in a clean light shirt covering your upper body. I have just closed the last button and it feels strange – to see something as common as a linen shirt hide the unthinkable, that wound in your chest I closed myself, knowing it would never heal...

It makes you look so young. So unlike you, somehow – you never walked around in a shirt, except in your own room, and even then, it was rare for you not to wear a tunic above. Somehow you never liked it – always thought it untidy, to appear in undershirt, that cloth that was reserved for intimacy, or sickness...

“I feel naked in those”, you would say, crinkling your nose – those rare moments where you would dress in front of a mirror, because circumstances required it, because you would have to appear as a King, dressed in your best attires, and would usually have me around to help you with the laces and the chain-mail...

“Come on. Best linen and all, and you are still grumbling!

\- Because I still feel _naked_. That white...”

You would shudder slightly, shaking your head and grabbing your tunic, making sure to pull it on swiftly, straightening it with a satisfied nod.

“What would you have them – red? Blue? Green with cornflowers...

\- _Disgusting_...”, you would whisper. “I just don't like them, Dwalin. They are thin, and even with all these buttons... they don't offer any shelter. Everything shows.”

Your tone was light, and yet... I knew you were thinking of darker days, of a tent in the Misty Mountains where a thin white shirt was the only cloth Oín would allow you to wear – claiming he needed access to your ribs and your arm, that everything else was a waste of time, fabric, and strength, for you and for him...

I still remember that look on your face – that silent, downcast expression, worse than anger, worse than tears... You would let us unbutton your shirt, would let Oín handle your injuries, without a word, your face averted, looking at the tent's wall, at the ground, not caring for the blood, yet unable to disregard the pain – and yes, you were right, everything showed, the sweat, the small spasms running through your body as he touched your ribs, even with the shirt back on... It would be drenched in sweat within minutes, there was no way to keep neat, there would always be copper stains showing soon afterwards, even with your bandaged chest, because you were shaking, unable to repress the shivers that kept pulling at your wound...

“Lad... If you would just agree...

\- No. Keep it for those in need.”

Oín's black gaze would cloud, and he would drag up the blanket, covering your chest, trying to hide the mess away – trying to give you back some intimacy when everyone knew it was a luxury no one could afford...

“Laddie, truly. I don't say it lightly, Mahal knows...

\- _I said no_.”

There was a strangled pain in your voice – and anger, as well, helpless anger that was only waiting to burst out, and yet ever remained repressed, at least with Oín.

“Thank you.”

You would let out the words through your clenched teeth – struggling to speak, forcing you to mean them because you knew how hard it was for him, and yet... He would still shake his head and leave your tent even more downcast than when he entered.

“Thorin...”

That day I remember I reached out for your valid hand. Just searched for your fingers, finding them cold and clammy, unresponsive even as I squeezed.

“You all come”, you whispered. “You pull, and push, look, rub, you don't even ask... You don't even... _doubt_ that I'll let you... And you are right, how could I fight back...

\- Thorin, it's not a fight. We are not against you.”

I had tears in my eyes – it was not fair, it hurt, but I was also glad because it was one of the first true sentences I heard from you, and I did not want you to stop speaking, I would cling to these words, and to your fingers... Your cold fingers that had circled mine, at last.

“Of course you are. _Thorin, rest. Thorin, swallow this. It will make you sleep, it will make you feel better, it will silence you and numb you and turn you into a living ghost while every able Dwarf and Dwarrow strives around you, it will make you weak and nauseous, doubled up in that accursed tent but it doesn't matter – we are not against you, we just want you to feel better_...

\- How dare you...?”

I had whispered the words, my voice as toneless as yours, and yet I did not let go of your hand. I just let my tears fall, silently, not caring to hide them – I had my share of losses too, and I was in your tent here, my last safe place, where no one but you could see...

“I would never numb you. I would never harm you. And you know it. You know it. You just... lash out because... because you know I can handle it, and I will... I will...

\- Go away.”

Your hand had balled, forming a fist under mine, hard and cold as if it was made of ice. You were breathing fast, there was sweat on your brow, drenching your hair, and your face was so pale it looked even whiter than your shirt.

“You heard me? _I said go_. ”

I swallowed, took a shaky breath and then I let go of your hand.

“Yeah. I heard.”

I got up, wiped my face, and then I turned – simply turned, because I had lied, I could not handle it, it was too hard, too unfair, too painful. I had lost my father, an uncle, a cousin and many friends – and to lose your faith and closeness too, it was too much to bear...

I had almost reached the door when I heard it. That soft, choked sound that spoke of a pain so deep it made you snarl and bite like an injured beast, turning against friends and family...

I turned, and saw you had moved – that your hand was clutching your ribs, your body curled up in pain, your eyes squeezed shut and your breath wheezing, coming in painful gasps.

“Thorin...”

I sat you up, not caring to hurt you – I wrapped my arms around you and held you upright, bringing my forehead against yours, feeling your body shiver and struggle against mine.

“I... cannot... breathe...

\- Of course you can. Of course you can, sparrow, it's easy, in and out – come on, in and out, slowly, one breath after the other, you are doing so well, you are doing it perfectly, in and out...

\- Dwalin...

\- Never mind talking. Breathe. Just breathe, breathe in, and breathe out, it's easy.

\- I am... so sorry...

\- Yeah. I know. Just shut it. Breathe. Breathe, Thorin. Breathe, sparrow. Do me the favour...”

There were tears streaming down your face – tears of pain because it seared through your ribs, unforgiving, robbing you of air... and it took us a while to understand it had little to do with your injury, that the triggers were anything but physical, that it was the only way your body had found to tell us just how much you grieved...

And tears streaming down mine, because I could not bear to hear that ragged breathing, to witness that bloodless face, these tears that looked so foreign on your cheeks, and to feel your weak embrace around my chest, taking back every word, desperately trying to cling to something, anything...

And sagging against me once the ordeal was over – once air reached your lungs again, causing you to moan, unable to suppress it, because your chest was heaving, despite your broken ribs, despite the hurt, despite anything...

“Why are you still here...?”, you whispered, and there was no hatred, no anger in these words, just unspeakable pain.

“Because this is where I belong”, I answered, softly, and I was still crying, silently, my tears falling down in your hair. “Because I just won't make it without you... I won't make it...

\- I... Dwalin...

\- Hush now. Don't speak. Don't speak, don't speak...”

That day I was selfish. I hushed you, placed my hand against your lips and held you. Cradled your head against my shoulder, bent down until my forehead met your soaked locks and held you, my arms wrapped tightly around you, so slender, so broken...

Until I felt your breath calm down a little, until I knew the pain was ebbing, just a tiny bit, enough for you to close your eyes, exhausted by this outburst that left you drained of the small amount of strength you still had.

You did not say a word when I helped you to lie down. Did not protest when I slid a pillow under your head, gathering your hair gently, brushing my fingertips against your chest that was rising and falling evenly again, before I covered you with your blanket.

You just closed your eyes, and as I took your hand in mine, as I had done only a moment before, I saw a tear run down your cheek. And then your fingers bent, enclosing mine. Still cold and clammy – but hard, and real, and alive.

Alive...

Oh Thorin, how I wish you would rage, and tell me to go away – snarl, bite, do whatever you want with me, but not lie still in that white shirt I cannot bring myself to love, even though I know that's the only way I'll be able to deal with the rest of your body...

I don't want you to feel naked, after all, can't allow that, can I...?

Can't allow that.

That shirt – it's covering your private parts, shielding them from view as I pull off your boots, not caring for the blood soaking your right foot, I'll deal with that later... Right now what matters are your trousers – my hands around your waist, gently brushing your hipbones as I unbutton and unlace...

It always was the tricky part. The moment where it really mattered to keep looking at each other's faces, and pretend it was nothing, nothing at all, and yet... It makes one feel so weak, so vulnerable, to have one's trousers pulled off when it's not a lover doing it, when you are not able to do it yourself and have to let another helping you out of your clothes...

The first time Oín almost had to fight you. Words just would not reach you – you grabbed his hands, desperately tried to held them at bay, not caring for Frerin's soothing words, for your father's deep voice, his hand brushing your cheek.

“Laddie, I have seen worse, truly...”

There were tears in your eyes and that day you cried, really cried, silent sobs of utter shame, because you were not a boy anymore, because it was even more private than private – you fierce and stubborn little prude...

“Thorin, _dashat_...

\- Come on, I'm your _brother_...

\- Get out... Please... Please, I'll do it myself, I want to do it myself...”

But you could not. That god-damned axe-cut, it had weakened you so much that you could not even sit up, and the only way to make sure the wound stayed clean was to wash it, every day – forcing you to leave your hips and legs bare, and let another take care of you.

“Laddie, it's nothing, truly...”

And yet you were still clutching Oín's hands, trying to push him away, curled up against the wall, determined not to let him touch you.

“Out”, I whispered, in the end, to Frerin. “Take them all out. I'll try to speak to him.”

Your brother nodded – his gaze speaking volumes about his worry, and understanding. He knew you, knew you were nothing like him, that what was no big deal for almost any Dwarrow basically meant the end of the world to you, and feeling utterly and completely sorry for you.

And in the end I was left with you alone, sitting myself on the edge of the bed.

“Hey...”, I whispered, gently, without touching you – knowing you would jerk away.

You had turned your back, were facing the wall, and I could see your shoulders twitch, every now and then, as you tried to repress your sobs.

“Thorin, I know it's difficult. Believe me. I wasn't exactly feeling comfortable, when it happened to me, and what was it you said that day? What did you say to me, Thorin...?”

You did not move. You stayed as you were, facing the wall, and I could almost feel the way you struggled, determined not to answer.

“Come on, sparrow, what was it you said...? Was it just a lie – was it just to make me feel better, to make me yield, or did you mean it...? Because it helped. It truly helped, and I would like to hear these words again. What did you say to me...?”

My voice was soft, and I slowly extended my hand, until my fingers met your shoulder, stroking it gently, almost expecting you to shrug me off, but you did not.

You just stayed as you were, still facing the wall, and in the end I heard your voice, hoarse and still wet with tears.

“That we both had to keep you there.

\- Yeah... And we did, didn't we? Keep me there. Even if it meant you'd wipe my very arse, and help me pass urine, and we were not even among Dwarves, if you would care to remember...

\- I know...”

Your voice was tiny, and I went on brushing your shoulder, knowing I had to give you time.

“But it's not the same...

\- Why, sparrow...? Why would you be the only one privileged enough to feel shame, and to push away those who want to help you...? Why would you want me to accept your help, to let you care for me, and yet refuse to let me care for you in return?

\- I didn't...”

You had turned – were facing me at least, and you looked so young, your cheeks hot and wet, your gaze bright and feverish, full of hurt and shame... It made my chest tighten, and I shook my head, searching for your hand once more.

“I said no to Oín. And Frerin. And... and ' _adad_.

\- Well, that's a fair amount of people, and each one of them cares for you and would not even dream to blame you and make fun of you...

\- I did not say no to you...”

Your voice was so low that I almost missed your words, and they left me speechless for some seconds, my fingers still around your hand – that hand you tried to snatch away, before I reacted and tightened my grip, keeping you close.

“You are sure about this, Thorin?”, I asked, in the end, and my voice was hoarse. “I... I'm not Oín, you know... I'm not your brother either...

\- But you were in Tharbad. You know. You know I have... You know I...

\- Yeah. Yeah, sparrow. I know. I know, and I'm so sorry.”

I brushed your knuckles with my thumb, gently, seeing tears well up in your eyes, showing me so clearly why it was so difficult for you, why it was so much more than just shyness and awkwardness that made you shrink from being touched so intimately.

It had been two years, but the wound left was deep, and to let another handle the parts of your body you had ever bared just once, only to be robbed, once more... it was almost unthinkable, and hurt you way more than the deep wound on your hip.

“I... don't want this...”, you whispered, and I just stroked your hand.

“And if we do it together... If we do it together, do you think it could be possible? If you let me help you, as long as is needed and only where it is needed... do you think you could bear it? Because you know, Thorin... you _do_ know we have to keep you there.”

You just lay still for a while, and I could see you lock some of your grief away, closing your eyes for some seconds. And nodding, in the end, almost imperceptibly.

And we managed. Day after day, until that wound healed. My hand on your hip, against your legs, your knees, your stomach, back and arms, gently running down the sponge so as to wipe sweat and blood away. Closing around your hand, helping you to take care of the most private parts, always making sure to look at you, to let you handle it in your own time...

Until I was able to see you relax, starting with the tricky bit first and then letting me take care of the rest for you, finding comfort and even some pleasure in that touch – not arousal, not desire, just a quiet, subdued joy at being touched and cared for.

That special joy I had discovered when it had been you, tending to me and making sure my body kept clean, so loving, so fierce... They were not even long, these moments, they were not romantic, not even silent because I made sure to talk so that it would not become awkward, and yet... they were so intimate that it changed something, between us.

Made it possible for you to undress, almost without shame, when war had us close and crowded again. Made the bond between us so tight that it did not snap, not even after Azanulbizar when grief, loss and hurt did everything to part us.

Not even here. I know that, Thorin. Believe me, I do. Even yesterday, when you threatened me, sent me away, told me to go before you'd kill me... I grieved, I cried inwardly, and I turned from you – yearning for you to call me back, yet knowing you wouldn't, because that broken, mad Dwarf in front of me was not you, not anymore...

And yet... There was fear in your gaze as well. Fear to hurt me, to see that threat come true – a warning that came from the Thorin I knew, I see it so clearly now...

And though I should probably be grieving – because it happened only a day ago, because back then you were still living, even mad and full of anguish and hatred... Though I should break, and fall apart, as I vowed back then in the Misty Mountains when I told you I would not make it without you... Though the thought that you still cared enough for me to try and warn me even as your words pierced me like blades should rip my heart apart and leave me bleeding, unable to find enough strength and reason to breathe – I find it is not so.

It is not so, and it surprises me, as I gently pull your trousers from your body and remove your socks, resting my hand on your knee, that left knee where I can still see the tiny scar you owed to that Wolf's fangs, so long ago...

It is not so, because that bond... That bond is not broken.

I still have you. I have you in every single memory – the tender ones, the teasing ones, those that hurt, those that made me angry, those that called forth tears... And I treasure every single one of them.

Every single one. Even those where you threatened me, because... because I can handle it. I know you just lashed out, I know you never _ever_ meant it, not even here in Erebor, and that thought...

That thought... That knowledge that I was close enough to get almost everything you could give, the small amount of bad and the tremendous amount of good...

That knowledge fills me with so much warmth that I have to turn from you, for a while. Have to lean against the stone, to look at those lights that keep flickering, their flames blurred – and no, I'm not crying, you idiot, I'm looking at the torches, good, old Dwarven torches that were the first thing you spoke of, as you entered Erebor again...

 _Chambers filled with golden light_ , you said...

That's what you gave to me. A thousand golden lights to fill my heart, and keep me warm, even with you gone. Because you were my King, my cousin, my shield – and the brother I had to tame a thousand times to have the joy of seeing you come back to me, always...

My light. My wonderful, savage, burning light. Even in the darkness.

Even in the darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! It took me a long time, because as I already said this story is hard to write. It calls forth so many emotions, and a deep sense of loss as I write it, and it does not really help that in my work, I currently had to deal with a lot of human misery, a lot of suffering, loneliness... and death as well. I do not want to use Dwalin or Thorin as a punching ball, but this story is certainly a way to let go of some of my own emotions... The main being that, well, life is so fragile and we really have to cling to the bonding and loving moments we have.
> 
> So here you have it, written very quickly save for a part in the middle that should bring in some lighter words. I'm sorry for the rest. I do not take it back, but I know it's sad. So am I, every now and then, but I thank you so much for reading and for every kind word I get.
> 
> BIG NEWS : I have a tumblr now! You can reach me under the name 'mahizli' because meysun was taken, right here : mahizli.tumblr.com . I am sharing thoughts about my writing, but also songs I like that remind me of characters I love and... we'll see for the rest.
> 
> Take care of yourselves, much love, Meysun.

I did not really look.

Not at them.

Kept looking at your face, somehow, still expected you to pull back, to move, to wince... To fight me, to shrink from me – anything but this stillness, as the sponge cleaned your lower body from the blood and dirt snow did not manage to wipe away.

I miss you.

I miss you so much.

It has not even been a day, and it already feels like you have been gone forever. Because you never were so still, never so yielding. Never so cold, not even in your darkest days.

I miss your voice. Your deep voice, your shouts, your angry hisses, the soft way you had to say our names. I miss your glance, your frown, your tears, the warmth in your gaze when I touched you. I miss your smile, so rare, I miss the way your face always managed to express so much, even with you all quiet and stern. I miss your blush, that shyness you barely ever showed, save in your private circle.

And I miss your moves. I always loved to watch you move. The way you fought, of course, so swift, so supple, shifting your weight, avoiding blows and dealing them – the way you arched your back, crouched, turned, your dark hair whipping the air as your blade met your foe.

The way you walked, also. It always made me smile. I always knew when it was just a show, when you acted the strong leader but were just fed up with everything, and decided to give them all what they expected. Heavy steps on barren earth, on careless rocks. Noisy. Graceless. Angry.

My sparrow did not stomp. Never. My sparrow danced, my sparrow slid, and he was almost noiseless – enough to silence those pointy-eared Elves, always making fun of us. They should have seen you, outrunning the Dragon in Erebor's walls, sliding upon the marble arches, gripping the pillars and mocking him, calling him a slug, a _slug_ , Thorin...

Your eyes so bright, and that smile, so full of wit, of revenge because you knew he would give in, would fall into the trap, light our long-smothered fires with his filthy breath...

And the way you grabbed the chains on top of that mould, the way your foot steadied itself against the iron links, like one of these tightrope-walkers we once saw... So much grace, so much poise, and will, and courage... Upright and as tall as you could be – oh Thorin, these were dreadful hours, fighting amongst ruins, having seen so many deaths, knowing we would add more, and yet I could not stop looking at you...

And then the mould opened, broke... and suddenly your grandfather's face appeared, golden, sightless... and it swallowed the Dragon, buried him, smothered him or so we thought... I remember it so clearly, your stillness, that tiny second where you thought it was over, the way you clutched the chain – and then the shock as the Dragon rose, once more, and left for Laketown, promising fire and death...

Oh Thorin...

I should have noticed. I should have noticed the way your legs suddenly seemed as heavy as lead. The way you almost stumbled, as you led us outside, determined to see, but already cracked. And the way you grew still, so still, when the first flames lept. The way you simply turned, climbed down the few broken steps, and turned your gaze towards Erebor instead.

I thought you were weeping. I thought it was reserve. I thought you did not want us to witness your despair – that you needed these few moments to brace yourself, to collect your shattered strength once more. I thought you were gazing at the walls because they reminded you of how much they were worth to you, so as to be able to bear this...

But I should have seen. That my sparrow's wings had been severed, brutally. That he was bleeding. That it had simply been too much. That your mind broke there, without a sound, almost without a warning, just like your heart had broken long ago. That every move afterwards, save for that terrible dawn just before the battle, was not fully yours anymore – something else was forcing your limbs to move, someone else was willing them into action.

I should have noticed that you staggered, almost imperceptibly – like someone who needs all his strength to keep his balance, and when I think about it, I noticed, but I thought it was exhaustion, and hunger, and the shock... I was so used to see you recover, grit your teeth and stand up once more, I simply couldn't believe you were overpowered, it took me so long...

How did it happen, Thorin...? How did I become so blind...? How could I just ask this of you – to bear this, to go on like you always did...? I have known you all my life. I know what you have been through. I have held you against me, endless times – I have felt you shake, drenched in sweat, as nightmares plagued you, ever since you were just a boy.

I have seen you weep. I have cradled you, whenever it was needed. I have seen you bite back tears, have seen you become colder, more collected, and yet I was always close enough to shield you when you sobbed, even when we were long past being boys...

I have seen you hurt, I have seen you broken. I knew what it looked like. I knew what you had lost. And I still made the same mistake I blamed my brother for, so long ago. I just assumed you would be able to handle it, once more. I just asked too much, like all the others... I was so used to holding you up like a banner, my pride, my shield-brother, my King...

How could I forget that deep inside, you were still but a Dwarf...? That it simply was too much – to see your home destroyed, the past reduced to ash and death ; to see your grandfather's face once more, and to witness the gold's failure ; to watch Laketown being reduced to desolation ; and to know, deep inside, that you were alone, completely alone – clinging to a dream that had broken...

I look at these strong, hard thighs, at these sharp knees, at your bruised shins and at your poor, injured foot, crusted in blood – and I beg for your forgiveness. I should never have asked you to stand up once more. I should have seen you stagger, I should have run down the stairs and drawn my arms around you so as to break your fall. I should have shielded you, pressed your face against my chest and told you it was alright to weep.

That you were loved, that Fíli and Kíli were there, eager to show you it did not change anything – that they would be glad to support you, for once, let you rely upon their strength and will this time... That no one in the Company would ever dream of blaming you, that they had been scared out of their wits to see you face the Dragon, and loved you even more for this one, last stand. That they loved you even broken, because you had tried.

Of all the Dwarves roaming this Earth, you had been the only one brave and crazy enough to dare trying. And it was not your fault. It was alright to break. We were all there...

We were all there, Thorin, and yet we left you alone, and it makes me weep.

I weep, as I run the sponge against your thighs, thinking I will never see you stand anymore. I weep, as I gently wipe your knee, brush that thin, white scar you owe to that Wolf – and I can still see you, hanging there between its fangs, unable to strike back, so tiny...

Until Frerin fired that arrow, until it let go, until I was able to run, terrified to see it bend upon you, bite that knee you had dragged up against your chest with your remaining instinct... Until I heard the second arrow hiss and watched the Wolf die, its head crushing your chest... Until I joined you, dragged you up, and heard the small noises you made, subdued even in terror...

I remember your hurried breathing, I remember holding you so close, I remember biting my lip so as to not cry out in relief, and I remember your shivers – it took so long to calm you down, Frerin had to cradle your face in his hands, had to talk quietly for a while, had to take you in his arms...

I wish he could have been there. He would have found the words. Would have drawn his arms around your shoulders and let you weep there, against his chest, until Erebor's dream bled out, quietly. He would have made it possible for you – to admit you had reached your limits. He used to make it possible, he was the only one truly able to share your burden, because he was also a Prince, because he shared a common past, because he knew what it meant to lose home, and to see a city of Men you loved reduced to ashes...

Perhaps he would even have prevented you to set out. Perhaps he would have been able to make you see that you had already done enough, for all of us... That you did not have to move, that it was alright to rest, that you _deserved_ to rest...

Him you missed so much, you still might have believed.

I hope you joined him. I hope he warms you up and whispers these words to you, that they enter your thick skull at last and that you finally feel at home.

Just like that evening, in Dunland – so long ago, and yet... Its peace and quiet always stood out in my mind, like a beacon reminding me of softer hours that had us all together in that little house, warm and sheltered...

It was snowing outside, and it was night already – the days were rough and cold, and we had been working hard in the forge, but since evening set on early, we were forced to stop sooner than in summer, and it made up for our strives...

I was there as well, and Balin, because it would often be that way. Back then we were living in a small house close to you, but we would still come and share dinner more than regularly, preferring the noise and animation Frerin and Dís always provided to a quiet meal where we would face each other in comfortable silence – but silence nonetheless.

That day I had seen you work with moves that were slower than usual – had seen your nose begin to run, your voice getting hoarser until it wasn't even heard anymore, had seen your eyes getting brighter and your cheeks taking that soft glow I had begun to recognise, each time you were getting ill. It was just a cold, it had not even prevented you from working, and was certainly not worth a complain, but I was glad my brother suggested to come over that night, because I wanted to make sure you were alright.

I always had to make sure, even when it was just a running nose and a sore throat – even when it was truly nothing more than a slight cold...

I remember the way you were seated on your bed, cross-legged and silent. Had already bathed, your hair damp and unbraided, were dressed in a clean shirt and had pulled on one of the thick woollen tunics the women and Dís had knitted for us. You were listening to the ruckus your siblings were making – smiled as you saw us, and there was such a soft expression on your face... I could see your head hurt, and that your throat was sore, but you had simply poured a spoon of honey in your tea and were content with sitting there, sheltered, watching your father welcome Balin and happy to have us all around you, warming up your fingers around your cup.

“Hey...”, I said, sitting down next to you, frowning when I saw your bare feet, brushing your forearm and finding your skin hotter than usual, as expected.

“Hey...”, you whispered back, leaning your head against my shoulder, searching for my warmth – and it made you look so much younger...

Your cheeks glowing, your eyes bright, and your body yielding, so warm and soft... It made you look – not younger, actually, it simply made you look your age, your usual restraint and grown-up calm swept away by weariness, leaving only a tired boy yearning for his cousin's arms. Back then, as you felt low and weak, an embrace was all you yearned for, was enough to make you smile even as your eyes and forehead burnt – was enough to make you feel better already.

“I don't want you to catch it...”, you croaked, eventually, making a move to pull back, but I had you, my arm firmly drawn around your shoulders.

“I won't”, I answered, and you sighed, giving in, nestling closer with a shiver.

“Thorin is acting silly”, Dís said, earnestly. “He said he doesn't want to eat. I think he should.

\- Not hungry, _mamarlûna_...”, you muttered. “That cup you made me was enough. Perfect.

\- Because I put some honey inside”, Frerin grinned, crashing on the bed next to you and sliding his fingers between your shirt and your tunic, causing you to jump and break free from my embrace to bat his hands away.

“Uuuuuh I knew you'd be warm, Thorin... Nicely hot and cosy, come on, let me just warm my hands up, don't be nasty...

\- Get off me! Your fingers are icy, don't you dare...”

You were shivering, glaring at him, your eyes bright and watering, and Frerin huffed, running his hand through your hair to ruffle it, knowing how much your hated it and running away with a laugh when he heard you protest – yet you were too tired to get up and make him pay for his mischiefs. You just growled, leaning against the wall and closing your eyes, and it made me smile.

“I could always catch him. Rub some snow in his face. You just have to ask...

\- Right now all I ask...” - you began, and then you sneezed, muffling it in your sleeve like the good boy you were, wincing when you had to swallow, trying to make your throat feel less dry.

“Some battles are lost before they start, and Frerin getting some _notion_ of sensitivity is one of them – there's no point in asking him to be silent and quiet, he'll just do the reverse, I guess we have to ignore him.

\- Oí, you thankless _notion_ of a brother, watch it! I was the one bringing that tunic to you because you called yourself too tired to get it yourself – have you forgotten?!

\- How could I – you keep reminding me of it...”, you muttered, and then you simply lied down, in a somewhat graceful move, drawing your arms against your chest and bringing up your knees, careful to leave me enough space to stay seated.

I was chuckling silently – used to your antics and revelling in them, but when I saw you shiver again I bent down, pulling the drawer under your bed to get your blanket out.

“Here. Get that around you – we don't want the last sensitive Dwarrow among us to freeze to death, do we? Would be a shame to let that amount of good breeding fall into oblivion...

\- I can't believe you are siding with him...”, you muttered, kicking me softly with your bare heel, yet wrapping the blanket around you with a grateful smile.

I grabbed your ankles, both of them, and then I slid your feet between my thighs, determined to warm them up so that your shivers stopped. And I heard your elated sigh as I squeezed them, gently, making sure to cover your legs with the blanket.

“Told you. Love to see you rage...”

You smiled, half buried under your blanket. I could hear your breathing – usually silent, now wheezing softly because of your running nose, and smiled back, thinking I would never tire of having you there, against me, and feel your thin, cold feet warm up slowly as you relaxed.

“Want some soup?”, I asked, a good while afterwards – it had gotten quieter, Dís and Frerin had dressed in their nightclothes and were playing together under her bed, while my father and Balin had warmed up dinner and were talking quietly, Thráin stirring the soup while my brother was getting the bowls.

I had slid a hand under the blanket and was stroking your shin, absent-mindedly. We were so used to each other's body, so comfortable with touch because we always collided and rubbed while fighting that it wasn't even awkward, and I had felt your legs get heavier against me with every moment, so warm and relaxed that it was almost lulling me to sleep as well.

You stirred and groaned something unintelligible, causing me to rub your shin a bit harder.

“It's warm. It will make you feel better.

\- I don't need to feel better...”, you mumbled, not even bothering to open your eyes. “Not hungry. Sleep... You eat.

\- Thorin...”

You turned slightly, got your feet out from between my thighs and crossed my legs with yours, the move slow and tired, yet determined. Looked up at me, with these bright eyes and that soft, childish expression I loved so much – the one telling me you felt safe and sheltered. It just lasted a second, you were looking at me through a haze of sleep and fever, and soon closed your eyes.

“I'm warm. I'm good. Don't want to move...”, you whispered, and then you were off, not caring for the soup or anything else – just falling asleep as you were, your legs still bridging mine.

That night I ate my soup seated there, resting the bowl against your knee, smiling when it failed to make you stir. No one was silent – no one really lowered his voice, and yet you slept through the whole evening, even as your father went to check upon you, brushing your forehead, his hand ghosting upon your locks. The only sound you made was a small groan of protest, once I had to shift your legs gently so as to be able to get up and go home, and it faded swiftly when I brushed your shin, one last time, before I left you to your rest.

And now I am looking at your poor, injured foot, and I wish... I wish I could have kept you there, forever, in that house with your siblings, and your father, and us. I wish I could have kept you safe, and sheltered.

I wish life had not treated you so roughly.

And as I wipe the blood from your foot, cradling it in my hand as I make sure to bare that terrible injury, as I bathe it gently so as to try to atone for that damage, that unnecessary pain...

As I wrap it up in a strap of linen, because it has to be tended to, I will have to clothe you and make you pull on breeches, trousers and boots, and I don't want to lay you down into the stone knowing you are still bleeding, even though I know it's a lie...

As I turn to your other foot, the left one that is still hale save for some bruises, I realise this is probably the part of your body that moves me most. They are beautiful, strong and able, just like your hands, but somehow they look more fragile. They were never bared, save in intimacy – to see you barefoot meant either to share your private circle, or to catch you off-guard...

They were so light, on stone floors and in the grass... They were so graceful, and they were so warm, so warm against my skin... I loved to warm them up. I loved to have them between my thighs, knowing you relaxed... I loved to brush them with mine, just like that, because we could – because it was the kind of comforting touch that meant the world to us, in dark days of war in the Misty Mountains where we could not shed chainmail and weapons, but still could take off our boots for a few hours of rest...

I am glad to see you rid of blood, at last.

I am glad to be able to clad you, soon. Because you deserve it. Because this still, broken form lying there is you – but is not you. You are so much stronger. You are so much warmer. There is so much more in you, and I know it, I know it so well...

Do you remember these terrible days, after Azanulbizar? Where you recovered – where we both recovered, and tried to pick up the pieces of a broken life, roaming Dunland, trying to find some work, together and yet seemingly miles away...?

You barely talked to me – not of what was going on inside, and you did not allow me to touch you. You just walked, and forced yourself to work, grimly, and it seemed to me this endless hustle was the only way to keep you moving... You could not stay with your father, could not stay with Dís, it was unbearable now that you had become the only son, your brother still seemed to be everywhere, in every silence, every move... So you chose to work, you chose the anvil, as you put it every time they tried to hold you back.

And I followed, but I was heart-broken. To see you shrink away from them, and to feel you so estranged from me... It's almost the same sense of loss I feel today, except that today... today I know there is no way to fight it.

I have lost you. And I miss you so much.

These days, I sought relief in Men. In their women, and in their ale, and I take no pride in it, but it was my way to keep going.

I guess I was young, I guess it was my way to protest, my silly way to try and make you react, because I knew you disliked it – disliked getting drunk, and did not trust Men, and least of all women. Not anymore.

That day, we had stopped in some kind of dirty inn. I do not remember where, and I do not remember the woman's face either. I just know she grabbed my butt, at some point during the evening, after you had retired to what they dared to call a room, forcing yourself to have dinner, laying some coins down and simply turning your back – and I was already drunk enough to think she could offer some relief.

But she did not. Because the One I loved was not there, and because the friend I missed still loomed around – because the woman kept asking things about _you_ , even while her fingers stroked my body, and I had to silence her biting down her lips, causing her to giggle about my so-called _eagerness_... I cried while I was in her, and she thought it was pleasure, but it was not.

It was shame, and grief, because no matter how much I tried to ground myself, I was lost, and unwanted, and lonely – my father gone, my brother far away, my One forever out of reach, and you locked up in your own pain...

“He's cute. Your friend. He's handsome. Do you think he...

\- Don't trouble yourself about him. Kiss _me_.

\- Jealous now, are we...?

\- Leave him out of this. Of us. Just kiss me.”

She did, and we drank even more, but I could not shake it. That feeling of utter, complete loss, that feeling of betraying you, somehow, you who were lying so still in that room, alone, never asking for comfort, never saying a word.

And so I ended up staggering towards you, leaving her to her rest. I never abused her. I never abused anyone. I just took what was offered and left – and yet I never felt so empty than these nights where we were lying apart, one moving, trying to believe he was still alive, the other silent and still, staring wide-eyed at the darkness.

I entered the room and found it dark indeed, save for the faint ray the moon still managed to send through the narrow window. It was a cheap place to rest, only a roof with a mattress where we could stretch our furs, and you were but a still form, curled up under your fur-coat, your back an even, silent line – yet I knew you were not asleep, because you were so quiet.

No breath, no move. No word. No reproach.

Nothing.

Nothing, when all I wanted was a word, something telling me my friend was still there somewhere, behind that striking face that made women blush, that fierce glare that frightened Men, behind the skilled fighter that still managed to convince them to hire us – our Prince to the bone, and yet...

I missed my friend. I missed my friend.

“It sucked”, I said, revelling in the crudeness of the word. “It truly sucked.”

A move, under the covers. Tightening the furs around you, yet not turning towards me. And it made me want to kick you, suddenly, kick you and shake you until you reacted, because I could not bear it anymore, not this silence, not this emptiness.

I wanted to be alive. I wanted us both alive.

“Heard me?”, I asked, my words slightly slurred, because I was drunk, truly wasted – and I could hear your breath become sharper as I grabbed your shoulder.

“Yes.”

It was so quiet. It was nothing but a word, and it wasn't enough. My fingers tightened around your shoulder and I shook you, shook this still, lean form I wanted so badly to react.

“Then say _something_!”

A slide of furs. A quick, purposeful move as you shrugged yourself free, long dark hair shielding your chest. Bright eyes facing me in the darkness, an upright body, so thin and vulnerable without jerkin or chainmail, yet still tense and able to strike back.

“And what could I possibly say? What do you want me to say?”

There was hurt in your eyes, hurt, disbelief and some anger, and I revelled in it. This was something. At least it was something.

“What do you want, Dwalin?”

Hoarse words, and a broken question – but I knew the answer, knew it with all the fibres of my tired, drunken, bruised and abused body.

“I want you! I don't want this empty shell, that quiet, subdued shadow of a friend!

\- I am not subdued”, you whispered, and your eyes seemed even brighter. “You are drunk, Dwalin.

\- And what if I am...? What will you do, tell Balin...? My mother...? My _father_?”

I scoffed, but it was a sob, actually. My way not to sob aloud, because I still was alone in that room, alone knowing we were two. And I reached out for your tunic and balled my fist around the fabric, pulling you closer, not caring for your tensing body.

“So _what_?”

Your fingers found mine and your grip was icy and hard. Your hand had mended, almost, even though your left arm carried deep and ugly scars, seen and unseen.

“Let go of me. Dwalin. _Let go_.

\- Or what?”

I had you so close. I could feel your breath, the warmth of your body, could almost hear your hurried heartbeats, and yet you had never seemed so far away.

“Or you will feel worse. This is not you.”

There was no fear in your voice, no anger, no reproach. It was calm, if wary. It was so quiet. Of course I let go, but it didn't prevent me from scoffing again.

“And what would you know about this? What do you know of getting drunk, of getting messed up, of sliding into someone's very warmth – of losing yourself there knowing you'll stay lost? You... you would never do such a thing. What would you know of dirt, and shame, and ugliness – of course that's not you, you are just too upright, too strong...”

You had withdrawn to the edge of the mattress. Still kneeling, yet tense, your face so still it seemed carved into stone.

“I know”, you simply whispered, in the end. “I know this is not you.”

And then very quietly, and still so far away from me:

“Dwalin.”

I think that is when I began to weep. I know it must have been the ale, it must have. This, combined with those cheap, erratic thrusts in which I had found no relief, and of course the quietness in your voice. Still void of anger, of any judgment.

I missed my friend. I missed my friend.

I flinched when I felt warmth against my back. It was soft, it was fighting back the cold – it was your fur-coat you were wrapping around me, quietly but determinedly, and I went on weeping, silently, hunched upon the mattress, shaking with grief.

Your own body met mine, then – solid and upright beneath the furs, your chest pressed against my back and your arms around my chest. It was not easy-going, it was one of the hardest things I had ever seen you do, because I had wounded you, hit you where I knew it would hurt – because despite my promises I had turned against you and yelled at you, because I was a mess when you held yourself upright, because you were exhausted and still had to reach out for what you were unable to give...

“Let go”, I sobbed. “Just let go.

\- They do not care for us. They do not need us. They despise us”, you said softly, still holding me tightly. “They do not have so many years to fill with battles and strives. Men do not care for promises, because their lives are almost too short to fullfil them... They cannot give us what we seek...

\- And what is it...? What is it we seek...? What do we seek, Thorin – what's the use of... all this... of breathing and... and feeling and... caring and...”

I could feel you drag a deep, shuddering breath. I could feel you brace yourself and I knew you were fighting back pain, because your grip tightened around me and your breathing changed. It was stabbing you in the ribs. It was making it hard for air to reach your lungs. It was choking you, and I had been the one plunging the knife in your chest.

But I couldn't stop. I was broken, I was lonely, and I missed my friend.

“Sleep”, you let out, between your gritted teeth, and it was so unexpected my tears stopped, slowly, causing me to wipe my face.

I tried to face you, but you were clinging to me and you were strong, despite the pain – strong and not in the least as slow and sluggish as I felt.

“That is what I seek. Every night. I want to sleep. I just want to sleep. That is all I know. Dwalin. All I know. I just hope I will sleep. It is not enough. But it is the only thing that makes sense. We have to sleep. To face the next day.”

You were shuddering now, shuddering slightly because the pain was ebbing, because you had managed to fight it back and that it left you cold and empty. And yet you still remained upright, there in your light tunic with your thin, tight braids, backing me up. Sticking to me.

My friend. My wonderful friend.

“Thorin. I... Mahal, I...

\- We have to sleep, Dwalin. I want you to sleep. And I have no right to tell you how to find it. No right. Dwalin. Please sleep. Please sleep now.”

And that deep voice, hushing me, holding me tightly... Somehow it reached through my fuzzy brain, lulling me and causing my eyelids to get heavy. I must have slumped against your chest, I must have, because I remember being eased down, gently, very slowly, still wrapped in your fur-coat, and your fingers running through the sweaty strands of my mohawk.

I do not remember the rest. I just remember waking up and wondering why my head hurt so much, why my stomach churned in a way I had not felt ever since that terrible day of blood, dust and death... I felt awful, I felt sick, and yet there was something, something incredibly warm and rare and so precious I felt my breath choke.

You had withdrawn from me, of course. Back then, sleeping against me was a comfort you would never grant yourself, and so you had curled up on the mattress, away from me, but you had left me your fur-coat and covered my legs with mine.

My legs, and one of yours as well, because somehow your left leg was tangled with mine. Resting between mine, a silent promise that you had got me, that you would make sure sleep kept me safe. That you were there.

Your eyes were closed, but I knew you were not asleep. You were too still, too quiet for that, and somehow it made my chest hurt. Because I knew you hadn't found what you sought, that night – that these hours had been sleepless for you once more.

I could feel the warm, solid weight of your thigh against mine, and the tinier shape of your foot, resting against my ankle. Our knees were touching, and the places where our skin met were almost burning hot, as it used to be in hours of quiet and comfort.

We used to share our warmth, and I had missed it so much it hurt, made my head burst and my stomach feel like a sickening dead weight somewhere beneath my chest.

I let out a sound between a moan and a sigh – and you opened your eyes, instantly. They were red-rimmed, they were tired, but they still looked so bright, and they did not look away, not even as I had to sit up, turning from you as I felt bile rise in my throat.

“Let go...”, I whispered, entangling myself from you, trying not to be sick on the mattress.

Yet once more, I felt your arm around me. Even when I threw up the rest of the cheap ale I had swallowed so gladly, straight into the bucket you handed me. It was too convenient, it was too well-thought of, and when I was able to sit up once more I looked at you, trying not to shiver.

“How many times...?”, I asked you, wiping the sweat from my brow, and this time you looked away, reluctant to answer.

“Twice”, you muttered.

I faced you then, so full of shame and self-hatred I just feared to become sick again. But you laid a hand on my arm, your gaze weary yet still full of warmth I recognised as concern.

“Don't. Please. Just rest a bit. Then we can try to leave this place.”

We did, as soon as we could, our belongings strapped on our backs and our weapons ready. But I was pale and sweaty, and still not feeling right, and you were so tired you could barely speak.

I was sick again, right after we left the town behind us, and one last time when we reached a clean spot close to the river. By then I had nothing left to throw up, and was slowly beginning to feel better. I drank some water eagerly, and then I leaned back against a trunk, to find you looking at me, deep shadows under your eyes and your face drawn.

“Thorin, I am so sorry.

\- Don't be. I am. I know it's not enough.”

I opened my mouth but you silenced me with a small gesture.

“It's hateful. This place. These Men. We have to leave. Somehow, we have to leave.

\- And where would we go, Thorin...?”

You shook your head, and I could see you were struggling to keep upright. I frowned in concern, and in the end I got up, shakily, to place a hand on your forearm, forcing you to sit down with me – so glad you were not shaking me off, after all I had done to you.

“I don't know, Dwalin. Somewhere far away. Somewhere without memories.

\- You need to sleep, Thorin”, I said, very softly. “You just need to sleep.

\- I can't. I tried. They are always there. Dwalin. I am so tired...

\- Then rest. You don't have to sleep. Just close your eyes. I'm in no shape to walk anyway.”

The self-contempt in my words made you shake your head once more. And then you lowered your body, hesitantly.

“Can I...?”, you asked, very quietly, and I just pulled your head on my lap, burying my fingers in your hair, beginning to stroke it gently.

“'Course you can, sparrow.

\- I'm glad you are here”, you whispered. “I really am, Dwalin.

\- Close your eyes now. Stop saying nonsense.”

But I was feeling warm, and alive in a way I had not felt in months, and as I stroked your hair I felt your head getting heavier against me. You were still curled up on the ground, but this time I had you close and I made sure to spread our furs upon you, determined to keep you comfortable.

And you slept. As long as my fingers stroked your hair, as long as I was touching you, your breath deep and regular – and you did not care I was still sweaty from being sick, that I had just disgraced myself in every possible way and spoken to you the night before in a way that could have made you turn from me forever...

I had shaken you, and hurt you, but it had only made you cling to me, and as I stroked your hair and watched you sleep, watched that thin, exhausted body find some rest at last, I swore to myself I would never let you down again. I did not know where you wanted to head, and if you would be able one day to hope for more than an undisturbed night, but I would help you fight for it, every day I would be able to spend at your side.

This is why I didn't question... did not speak up, not at once... I trusted you so much, ever since that day where you had been able to help me find a way back to myself, where you had shown me so clearly you knew to tell words and deeds apart...

I loved you so much, Thorin. I owed you so much.

I would have followed you through Moria itself, I swear. I just wanted you to reach whatever it was you yearned for – and it did not matter you snarled, and hurt me, and pushed me away. I always knew you were there, somewhere, and I just hoped you would find the way back as well, just like I did that day...

I held you when you were low, but so did you. And you were everything to me – everything once my father was gone, once we decided with Dís, without talking to each other, that there was no future between us. You could have pushed me away, but you did not, you made me hold on and this is why I did not even consider speaking up to you, not until it was almost too late...

Can you forgive me for this? Can you forgive me for not having dared, when I should have, and for daring when I should have kept silent...?

I look at you, lying there, your body clean and so handsome. There's only your hair to take care of, your hair and then the clothes... I am almost there, but I am still not ready – I don't want to let you go, I can't bear to lose you, not yet, Thorin, please...

I look at you, at this peaceful face, and I lay my palm against your cheek as I weep, quietly.

I weep because I know the answer. I weep because... because somehow, deep inside, it seems to me I hear your voice, soft and deep, so comforting, so loving, and I almost feel your fingers running through my hair, like so long ago...

I weep because, even through my grief, I know the answer.

_I am glad you are here, Dwalin._

Deep and loving.

I miss you, Thorin.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello laddies, here I am again... I know, some of you are waiting for me to update The King of Carven Stone, but... if you really miss that universe, I will highly recommand you to read Chapter 20. Because it will help you understand this one better, and because I love playing hide and seek, especially when Khuzdûl is involved. Haha. I know you love me :).
> 
> So, lads. We are drawing towards the end of that story. Not yet, not just yet. But I think I'll make it 13, like the Dwarves, because it feels good and appropriate. Dwalin cannot mourn here forever, can he? And even though there are probably a million words he has to say - every night has to come to a close. So here you have it. The beginning of the end of this fic you have made me write - and I cannot thank you enough for it.
> 
> Guest, I think you will find some answers here. I cannot believe I had stayed so ambiguous - and cannot wait for your reaction.
> 
> Take care everyone, and thank you for everything. Till soon I hope, Meysun.

  
  


Dried white petals.

Somehow this is what I recall, as I touch your hair. I have you lying so still, your face so calm, your body unmoving...

There is no blood anymore. It is all washed away and gone, carefully scrubbed from your body, leaving only scars, and soft skin that will never be bared anymore, save for your hands and face – and your hair.

It is still matted and dirty, coated with blood, and mud, although the snow has melted. It is the only part of your body that still screams out the unthinkable. That you are no more. That you fell, and faded there, in the snow, alone and unaided.

Our King... Our King who would not wear anything but these two faded hair-clasps, save in madness, that strange sickness that caught up with you here, and that you still vanquished...

No bead, no silverwork – just two thin, grim braids, and the clasps of a boy who left too early. Just like you did – dying there right above me, upon that frozen waterfall. Black hair on dazzling ice, rubies scattered on the snow, and me falling down on my knees when I saw you.

They tell me the lads are dressed. That it's all done – their slender bodies cleaned, their soft hair braided, our two young Princes, the golden and the dark-haired one... That Óin and Glóin have done it – an old pair of brothers for the young ones. And that Balin has braided their hair, carefully – because he's the only one who has done it for all of you.

They came, and asked me if I needed help to clothe you – they have looked at your matted hair and I have seen tears in their eyes, because you are still our King, because it's unthinkable for them to see you like this. They have seen you injured, sweaty, covered in cobwebs, drenched in dirty water – but they have never seen you so still, your hair bloody and unkempt.

I sent them away. I promised them I would do it. Wash your hair and clothe you – and I know dawn is near, and that I should hurry, but somehow I cannot... I have to be cautious, your locks are so tangled and I don't want to pull at your hair...

It has taken me so long to undo your braids – they are crusted in blood, it has even found its way into the tiny silver adornments your father carved for Frerin... Those you claimed back, in dark days, to keep them with you until the darkest day...

And now that dawn is near, I have brought a warm basin next to you once more. Have poured a few of Óin's salts in it, so that it rinses the smell of blood away. And I am working my way through your locks, drenching them in water and running my fingers through them, removing dirt and clots to make them shine.

It takes me three basins, Thorin. One with the salts, another with soap, and the last one with clear water – until I have it damp and clean around your face. Raven-black, save for these few grey strands that had begun to find their way there – showing me that even sparrows cannot escape time. Yet you always looked so young to me...

And now I have your head in my lap once more. One last time. A few last, precious minutes I do not want to give back – and yet I will have to. I know that. Dawn is near, and I cannot hide in the darkness with you. Not anymore.

So I run the comb across your hair, carefully, very gently. They are so long. They are so soft. They are so beautiful, rich and silken, just like your voice used to be, and it soothes me. I place my fingertips against your skull and I stroke it – especially that one spot close to your forehead that remains scarred, no matter how hard I tried...

And then I place the comb between your locks and let it run, very slowly, so that each strand untangles, and rests against your chest, circling your face with dark, soft curves. It is strange, Thorin – but your hair is the only part of your body that still feels alive. It probably is. They say it keeps growing for a while, even in tombs of stone, as if to show that it's not so easy, that no Dwarf is snatched away just like a candle-light blown out by the wind...

Your locks truly look alive. They seem to relish my touch, and the water – they curl, ever so slightly, drawing little waves that look like adornments indeed, and used to save you from having to comb them too often.

That hair you shared with Dís...

Diamonds in hers, faded white petals in yours – the day she was wed, the day the Ered Luin threw flowers in the air to show their joy... The day she shone so brightly there was no room for sadness, not while she was still there...

I remember the sun.

We had made it through the night, dancing, singing, eating and drinking. It had been a beautiful feast, so full of smiles, and laughter. And music. You had brought out your harp, had made sure to play for her, every note worth a thousand words.

And I had even seen you dance. With Dís first, of course, and she had laughed. Had entwined her arm with yours and had let you lead the dance: Thráin should have done it, actually – Thráin should have been the one leading her out, but he could not. Could only sit there, and smile at you both, one hand gripping the bench and the other resting on Balin's forearm, as usual. There, and yet so far away.

So I had seen you dance, and Thorin – you had no idea of the uproar it caused among Dwarrowdams. No idea at all. It still makes me smile. How you found yourself obliged to invite them all, one after the other, your cheeks bright red – but this day was for Dís, and you couldn't refuse, so there you were, sparrow. Dancing, wondering how in Mahal's name this was actually possible, and still shielding yourself, of course. Never giving more than what was needed, always bowing at the end of the dance, and turning to the next Dwarrowdam, a helpless look in your eyes that would have made me chuckle, had I not been busy to get them dancing myself, atoning for your lack of conversation with powerful swings that had them shrieking and giggling like the girls they all were.

But after that, things got slower. I know we drank a lot, and I also remember laughing a great deal. Laughing, because it was the only way to keep myself from feeling too much of that hurt I'd never voice aloud. The hurt of seeing her wed another. My _sarnûna_. The One I would have claimed for myself so gladly, had circumstances only been different. Had I been another Dwarf, had war not made it so clear for me that this kind of future simply wasn't for me.

I wanted her sheltered. I did not want her to lose anyone else in battle and war. I wanted her to have a warm house to return to, to laugh and sing, and to have children of her own she would not have to sacrifice... And now, it all feels so vain. It is all shattered. Everything I dreaded has come true, and I cannot begin to think about her feelings when she will know, the mere thought makes me want to bash my head against the wall until it cracks. Until I cannot even think about all this anymore...

But I remember the sun. And I remember you. You had vanished, for a while, had left the barn where we were all seated, and when you came back in I saw something had changed. Your cheeks were still glowing – it was hot inside, and we had all drunk a lot, I could see you stagger slightly as you walked towards the bench where I was seated, with Bofur, Bifur and the rest of all the steady drinkers. But there was restlessness in your eyes as well, and a hint of distress that vanished when you saw me.

“Oy, Thorin, what took you so long?!”

Bofur's cheerful voice bounced against the wall and he pushed a tankard towards you, grinning at you. And I saw you smile back, a light smile that was just another way to hide yourself away. You sat next to me, and you didn't say a word, you just listened to our jokes and banter and answered with that shy smile of yours – because you were the bride's brother, you had to smile, this was a happy day after all and it had been perfect...

Dís and her husband had finally retired, among cheers and laughter. Your father had left as well with Balin and most of the Dwarves, leaving only the most hardened drinkers – those who had decided they would make the best of this one, light day in a hard life of work and striving...

And after a while I felt something warm against my side, and realised you were leaning against my shoulder, struggling to keep your eyes open. The sun was throwing its first rays across our table and it made some of your locks look golden, making me want to run my fingers through them, but I just slid my arm around you, still laughing at Bofur's last joke.

“Oy, Dwalin, let's have some fun. Watch this. Thorin?

\- …

\- Thorin!

\- Yes.”

You tried to open your eyes but somehow didn't manage. Just poured your last remaining strength in answering distinctly – your voice soft, yet firm.

“Thorin, are you awake?

\- …

\- Stop it, Bofur”, I threw in, but you moved slowly, nestling closer against me.

“Yes.”

I brushed your shoulder, thinking you were not. Not really. But you still tried to be, and it made me want to close my arms around you and hold you until you slept for good.

“Thorin, are you _finally_ drunk as a lord..?”

He was giggling, the idiot, and I shook my head, but could not prevent myself from smiling when you let out the answer, still clear and firm.

“Yes.”

The roaring laughter it caused made you frown, slightly, but still wasn't enough to make you open your eyes. You just buried your face in the crook of my shoulder, like a boy, like so long ago, and I thought my heart would burst with the love I felt for you.

Because you would always come first. Always. Not because you asked, but because I knew you would be utterly, completely alone otherwise. And Dís knew it too. We never discussed it, not in so many words. But we both knew, after the pyres, after these dark days. That, should we be bold enough to claim the other, it would result in losing you.

I have tortured myself with this, I really have, Thorin... I tried to find a way, for some weeks, but I already knew I'd have to chose. Either her, should she want me – and I think she might have, I think she could have... Or you. Because courting Dís, and marrying her meant having her safe, and having me safe. Meaning you could leave. Fade away. Meaning you were not needed anymore, not by us – us whom you loved most, even in dark days.

It was untrue, of course. It was skewed. But there was no way to help it. No way to make you believe otherwise. I know you did not ask this of us, I know you would have wanted us together – but I... I could not bring myself to lose you. I needed you. I needed you so much. And I had promised, Thorin.

In the Iron Hills, when you were but a boy, when I saw you run there, in despair, between sharpened blades in the obstacle course, not caring you might die, because you saw no way out, already then...

I promised to shield you. I promised to protect you. But I also promised to stay with you and never leave you – and though it only bound me to your side in battle, though it was a war-oath, and not a wedding-oath, though _mamarrakhûn_ does not mean One... It was still close, Thorin. So close, because... because save sleeping together, we did it all. The things married people live through. The things life puts them through.

We did it all, and even as I wept because I knew I could not have her, I didn't doubt my choice. It was you. It would be you. It would always be you, because you deserved it.

Because you still deserve it.

_Tired._

Bifur had laid a hand against my arm to catch my attention and had signed the word.

“Then go to sleep, Bifur. It's alright.”

_Not me. Him._

“Oh. I suppose you are right...”

I was smiling, but I was feeling ill-at-ease, because Bifur's black gaze always seemed to look at things I could not fathom, to catch meanings beyond my reach – he was so strange, with the few Khuzdûl words he'd let out sometimes, and his restless hands...

_Needs some peace. So do you._

“Bifur, I...”

But he just smiled and grabbed the tankard you had discarded. And in the end I looked at you, still nestled against me, and rubbed your back, roughly enough to make you stir.

“Thorin, let's get you home, shall we? Leave the drinkers to their sport...

\- Hmm...

\- Come. Move it. Can't fall asleep on the bench, you know...

\- Not asleep.”

You blinked, and tried to sit up, resting a hand against the bench, but your eyes fell shut and I had to steady you placing a hand on your chest.

“Right, Thorin... We're out of here.”

I dragged you up, drawing one of your arms around my shoulders and circling your waist. You managed to stand up, actually, and I saw you blink, several times, looking at the others who cheered and raised their tankards towards you.

“To the bride's brother!

\- Cheers, Thorin!

\- Long live Durin's line – and blessed be the way they hold their liquor!

\- Oy, Bofur, remember who you're speaking to”, I growled, playfully – and he laughed, merrily, winking at me.

“Thank you.”

You whispered the words, quietly, and I saw you rise a hand to sign it, too – how was it that you'd remembered Bifur, and yet were too sleepy and drunk to be able to walk properly...? I soon had to carry you. I remember that. The way you simply sagged against my side once we were alone, not caring for my curses, and the way you nestled against my back when I dragged your arms around my neck and slid my arms under your knees.

“Right. Let's get you home, shiny-boy.

\- Not shiny.

\- Come on, they were all fighting for a dance with you, Thorin...

\- Not dancing.

\- I didn't dream it, sparrow... They all wanted you for themselves...

\- Not me.”

And then you put a hand against my lips. Just like that. And I smiled, and pretended to bite you, and I felt you laugh, briefly and silently, still pressed against my back.

The sun was shining brightly when I reached your room, and I laid you down on your bed, gently disentangling myself from your embrace. I removed your boots, and when it became clear that you would not budge, seated there in your finest clothes, one of your braids getting loose and a dozen of tiny white petals caught in your raven locks, I sighed.

Your eyes were dreamy. I knew you were drunk, but it didn't make you look silly, or wasted. It just made you seem so young. And almost happy, because it offered an escape. For a while.

“Won't you help me?”

My voice was gruff, but I didn't mean it. Not really. And when I began to unbuckle your belt, removing it from your waist, I saw your eyes become even more dreamier.

“Yes...”, you whispered, and your fingers closed around the hem of your jerkin – but you did not take it off, the movement trailing off like a fleeting thought.

I put my hand above yours and eased you out of it, shaking my head – it had been long since I'd seen you like this, and it made my heart feel both warm and aching.

“Come, sparrow. Just the tunic, and then we're done. The trousers you can keep.”

You had a little smile, and you actually tried to undo a button, but it proved too much and in the end it was me again, unlacing and unbuttoning – and though I smiled back, it also made me feel strange. Wanting to cry, because it could have been other sapphire eyes, another beautiful, strong frame facing me, letting me free herself from costly clothes, facing me there with these lost, faded petals caught like diamonds in raven-black hair...

“There...”, I said, and there were tears in my eyes, but I was still smiling, and I tried to ease you down so that you could finally sleep.

But you laid a palm against the mattress and shook your head, slowly.

“What now, Thorin?”

The dreamy look was still there, but your smile had faded. Instead, there was concern, concern and some anguish as well – emotions always tossed you about, and it was even worse when you were drunk.

“You too...”, you said, and I frowned.

“Me what?”

You closed your eyes for a while, and then you gathered your strength. Reached out for my body, trailed your fingers around my waist until you found my belt.

“Thorin, what are you doing?

\- You too. Dwalin. With me.

\- Sparrow, you're drunk...”, I said, very softly, but you dragged yourself closer, still trying to undo my belt.

“She is happy...”, you whispered, and as you looked up I saw my own tears mirrored in your eyes. “She is very happy. It is worth it.

\- Worth what, Thorin?”, I asked, my throat tight – it seemed surreal, you kneeling there, facing me, the sun playing on the sheets, on your hair and in your eyes.

“This...”, you said, and you laid a palm against your chest, and then against mine – and you kept looking at me, even when a silent tear ran against your cheek, soon followed by another.

A small gesture, and so much unvoiced pain.

“Don't leave me, Dwalin.

\- Hey, I won't...”

My thumbs traced your face, wiping your tears away.

“I won't, sparrow. No need to strip me down...

\- Do you know what it feels like?”

Your voice was shaky and I frowned, busying myself with removing some of the petals from your hair, trying to soothe you.

“When someone... kisses you. She tried. After the last dance. Kissed me. But I did not kiss back. I did not feel it. I never feel it. Not anymore.

\- Who, Thorin...?”, I asked, very softly. “Who kissed you?

\- I told her no. And she wept. Made me promise not to tell. I wish I could feel sorry, but I don't. I never asked. I don't want her. I don't want that. I want that for you. I wish I... I wish you could feel that...

\- I don't need that. Don't trouble yourself with that, Thorin...

\- You are always there. I just... I just want you there, always. But it is not fair...”

Silent tears running down your cheeks, and so much anguish. It was not love you offered me, not that kind of love. But it was everything else, it was so much more, and yet there you were, weeping, thinking it was not enough, thinking you were dooming me to a lonely, loveless life – oh Thorin, how I loved you... and how I love you still...

“Thorin, don't. It is fair. It is what I want. What I chose. Don't you remember? _Ya astû zabinganagmi ra astû nê zaserejmi..._

_...‘ashur nurtu kuylê la’ murudmi_ ...?”

And the unvoiced question, at the end... That accursed, always recurring question... The one showing me you still could not see it, that you were worth it, that there was no reason to doubt, not for you, and not for me...

“Of course, Thorin. Every single day. With all my heart.

\- Why...?”

You had brought your hands up, had laid them against my shoulders, steadying yourself, still looking up at me.

“There is no why, sparrow.”

And my voice was rough, as rough as your hands I had seen so often close around sword, chisel and hammer. They were tracing my jaw, following my cheekbones, and there was a strange look in your eyes, lost and yet strangely aware, so bright...

And there was nothing I could do, when you bent towards me. I felt your lips against mine, and then you kissed me, and though it was no lover's kiss, not really, just your lips against mine, not playing, not exploring, just touching with full awareness of what it meant... I never felt its like again.

Your body was pressed against mine and it was enough for me to feel that it was nothing more than a kiss. There was no desire, no arousal. Just a terrible yearning to give me something, to show me you cared, that you would offer me all you still had.

It tasted of ale, of salt and of care.

And I never felt its like again.

“Thorin...

\- This is what it feels like”, you whispered. “I just wanted you to know this. We were just boys, and I... I did not... I should have met your words properly, I should have...

\- Hey. Thorin. Hey. You did. You always did.”

I gently tilted your head and brought our foreheads together.

“No need to strip me down”, I smiled, and in the end you smiled too.

“Don't leave me”, you whispered, and I shook my head.

“I won't.”

And as the sun threw its bright, dazzling light into the room, I swiftly unbuckled my belt, stripped myself from my own jerkin and tunic, and then I laid down next to you, pulling you close, letting you rest your head against my chest.

I knew it would not last. I knew you would never allude to it again, that you would have to sleep alone, night after night. Get used to a house where your sister was no more, where only your father and his ghosts remained.

But I also knew you had meant it. That the kiss that had renewed my oath to you was worth more than any Dwarrowdam could ever offer. That you were  truly worth it, and that, no matter the pain, I  had made the right choice. 

And I still think so. I still think so, Thorin.

Dawn has come now. It throws shy rays across stones – shining through long-forgotten openings, high above. And your hair is spread around your shoulders, and on your chest, in long dark waves that show the wealth you still have. Making us all proud – showing them that even broken, and fallen, you are still our King.

It is so hard to let you go.

I don't want to. I want your head to rest in my lap forever, my fingers to run through your locks until I fall asleep, until you shake yourself free and recover to face me, smiling at me – because we both knew we never truly rested save close to the other...

But you will not rise. You will not rise, and I have to let you go. I cannot keep you with me, and hide there forever – the days of soft words and sheltering moves have gone, long ago, never to return.

I have to give you back. To the lads, stretched there at your side. To the Company, who wants to take a last look, share a last touch before they let you go... And to the world – because it has to be. They have to see you – and then I will have to endure the words I cannot bear to hear...

Not ' _the King is dead_ _'_. This I know, and feel in every part of my body – an open wound that will leave a scar I never want to forget. This I see, and will strive to believe, from that day on – because I have to.

No, what I do not want to hear are those saying ' _long live the King_ _'_.

Because my King is dead, and will forever be.

Because the only one I could have seen at your place was Fíli – the lad you had raised with her, that brave lad, that wonderful Dwarf that lived up to more than your expectations, and that you loved so dearly because it was never granted, because you knew he remembered his father, and that his loyalty had been hard-earned, to become unwavering...

And Kíli, perhaps, even though... even though it would have meant so much pain for him that I cannot bring myself to believe it. No, no kingship for my Kíli – just like you would never have wished it for Frerin, because the crown's weight could cloud even the sunniest among us...

I cannot believe they are both dead – and I cannot believe I am heartless enough to think it is still better for them to be dead together, than to have one remaining alone... I have seen to what damage it led. Once, I have seen an elder son become the only son, and banish the sun forever from his skies – and I do not wish for any Dwarf to live through this...

I wish they were both still alive.

I know you would want them to be alive. I know you never imagined this, save in your worst nightmares – and I cannot bring myself to think of their mother.

I just know I do not have a King – not anymore... and Dáin knows it.

He came to me, Thorin. Right before I came to you. He came to me, and he was weeping – because he never wanted this, because just like me, he would have given all the gold in Erebor to have you all still standing, injured perhaps, but alive...

He said he would not ask anything of me. That I did not have to see him as my King – that I should just go on and see him like my cousin, as we used to. That it would help him to have one among all who still saw him as nothing more than the Lord of the Iron Hills.

That it would help him to remember that he was nothing more than Dáin – and should never consider himself otherwise.

That to have me mourning you would help him to overcome his own guilt and to brace himself – because he did not want this throne, nor this crown, nor this Mountain, yet he knew how much it mattered to you. And that he would strive hard to fullfil your wish of seeing it restored, so that no Dwarf would have to know hunger and poverty anymore...

And he asked to come and clothe you with me – because you were his closest cousin save Dís, and because he had not been able to do it for Frerin, the joyful playmate he had loved so much, and missed so dearly...

I know you thought he would have preferred to see you dead. That he was closer to Frerin, and was never able to look at you without seeing his shadow – but you were wrong, and the day you learnt he had named his son after you, it finally reached that thick skull of yours...

“Why?”, you hissed, distress and cold fury shining in your eyes, standing there in Dís' kitchen, your fists balled around the letter.

“What in Mahal's name has made him think this would _ever_ be suitable?

\- It is all written there”, Dís said, very calmly – she was never afraid of your wrath, always knew when it was your only way to let out hurt and grief.

“He has gone mad, surely!

\- He _loves_ you, _marlel_. Is it so hard to believe?

\- There are hundreds of appropriate names, why did he have to chose that one?!

\- Durin's beard, he _wrote_ it! There, Thorin, give me the letter – and don't you dare crumple it like one of your handkerchiefs, this is _important_!”

She snatched it from your hand and faced you, my _sarnûna_... So brave, so loving – so patient with her elder brother that would not see the light, no matter how bright it was...

“There. Listen :

_'I hope you will forgive me for sharing your name with my lad. He's shouting on top of his lungs, and it made me think of you – besides, last time I tried to cradle him his fist landed on my eye, definitely something you'd have done._

_Jokes aside, Thorin... How strange it feels to write that name and know that I'll have two, from now on... Jokes aside, cousin. I'm not gifted with words. I'm not_ him _, you know, and though I thought about him a lot, I did not feel like saying his name aloud, day after day. It would have felt strange. It would have hurt – and we both had enough of hurt._

_And I remember who stood tall that day. Who prevented my father's body from being defiled, desecrated, and allowed me to see him whole until the end. So forgive me if I charge my boy with the same hope, and love – if I ask him to remember his grumpy uncle, and to watch over me like you watched over my father._

_There. You know that it's pointless to argue anyway. So shut up, and congratulate me, because I'm happy. And get your arse down my Hills one day. We all miss you, and I want to show_ _you_ _my lad and tell D_ _í_ _s she's not the only proud new mother among us silly Durins._ _'_ ”

She let down the letter, only to find you gazing at her, wide-eyed and pale. She smiled at you, and took a step towards you – and it seemed to shake you from the stillness his words seemed to have cast upon you, because you turned, letting out a hoarse curse, and left the room, closing the door behind you and leaving the house with brisk, fierce steps.

“Goodness, Thorin!”, Dís called after you, but her husband put a hand on her forearm.

“Give him time. He's anything but angry. He's just overwhelmed.

\- I bet he is...”, she grumbled, and then she turn towards her little lad, her Fíli who was still in my arms, beaming at me, unaware of the storm-clouds around him.

“I'll have Balin get him to write a proper answer, I promise you. That idiot. That stupid, blind, stubborn little idiot...

\- Not so little”, I threw in, and it made us all laugh.

And of course you wrote back. Told him you were honoured. That you could not wait to see the lad – but you never alluded to Frerin, not even with Dáin who knew you so well, and who never wanted you to be anything else than hale and happy...

I will fetch him now, Thorin. I will grant him this request, and me that small comfort. I am no son of Kings, after all, I'm only your _mamarrakhûn_ , and Dáin is used to leading, and appearing in front of his men, he will know if the clothes are proper – if they are indeed kingly and fitting.

I am sure they are. Glóin picked them with Dori – and if there is something these two know, it's about the value of clothes and fabrics...

But still. I will fetch him. Grant us both the comfort. And maybe – maybe, Thorin... Maybe I'll find some last spark of duty, deep inside... Maybe, once I'll see his honest face and watch him handle your body – maybe I'll be able to think and make myself believe I could stand at his side as well... Not like I stood at yours – of course not.

Stand, simply. Just stand. Because I have to.

Lie still, Thorin. Let me fetch Dáin. Dawn has come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, laddies, the secret is out... And no, I am not shipping them :)! Read chapter 20 of the King of Carven Stone, it's just an oath - and an old medieval custom I found particularly appropriate to explore this strange triangle of Dwalin, Dis and Thorin... It's all without sex and smut, though. There are other forms of love, surely :).
> 
> And since I'm not mean, and love you all, here you have it again, Dwalin's oath I have loved to write for him, already months ago :
> 
> "Astû zamarakhmi. Astû zamahshumurmi. Ya astû zabinganagmi ra astû nê zaserejmi, 'ashur nurtu kuylê la' murudmi.
> 
> I will shield you. I will protect you. I will stay with you and never leave you, every day of my life until I die."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This is awfully long. It's probably not even flowing properly. I don't know. Dwalin has so many things to say, and yet this story is nearing the end. The next chapter will be the last one, and it will include the funeral. This much I can tell you, the rest is - as usual - completely unclear in my mind.  
> I hope you are all doing well. I miss some of your comments, but I guess you are all busy and only wish you to take care and be happy. Much love, Meysun.

I did not leave you, in the end. I did not manage. I could not. To think I would abandon you, lying there on the stone, in that thin linen-shirt, so fragile, without any weapon to defend yourself – at anybody's mercy...

I did not want to expose you. I know you would not have wanted anyone to see. You never did. Never. Even with Fíli, and Kíli, or Dís – you never allowed yourself to appear half-dressed before them, not even injured or ill.

She knew. Your sister. Each time you reached her, standing tall and proud before every Dwarrow, waiting for the door to close, for your exhausted body to drag itself in your own room – for her hand to feel for your chest and back, or your forehead.

She knew she had to fetch me.

And I just had to take a look at her face to move, no matter where I was and what I was doing. Sometimes she did not even need to send for me – how many times have I been the one leading you home, feeling the tight grip of your hand upon my forearm, having to witness how you would never allow yourself to stagger...?

I have seen you undergo a whole meeting and a mining inspection with a fever so high you could barely hold quill or torch – and yet I saw you read each contract carefully, and sign your name neatly, I saw you walk through the mines you had been so careful to secure and restore, and listen to the carpenters' report with unwavering attention, simply leaning your back against one of the beams.

Only when it was all done – when the sun was low and the moon rising, when everything had been signed and decided, only then did I hear your voice, so quiet, almost unheard.

“Dwalin.”

You were leaning against the rocks, waiting for the last Dwarf to turn and go home, and I could see how drained your face was. Sweat was drenching your chest, and your cheeks were almost bloodless. They were nasty, these fevers, coming from marshes, always making sure to threaten our summers – until we dried them up, until we managed to wipe out that danger as well...

“Wait. Right. They are gone.”

I had kept my eyes fixed upon the Dwarves, waiting for them to take the turn bringing them back to the settlement, and I could hear you breathe out. Only then did I turn, and saw you slide against the rock until you sat down on the ground.

You were shivering, and I could feel the heat radiating from your body, but I just reached for my flask and made you drink, giving you a moment to recover.

“Marsh fever?”, I asked, quietly, and you nodded.

We all went through it. Several times. It was a well-known and frequent illness back then, with sudden and violent bouts, but thank Mahal the cure was common enough, and Oín always kept enough supplies.

“ _Malagnul-zarz_ it is, then. Lovely flavour to your dinner.”

You groaned and closed your eyes, and I saw beads of sweat drenching your neck. I wiped them with my sleeve, quietly, and you kept your eyes shut, for a few more breaths.

And then you placed your palms against the ground and pushed yourself up. I remember the way your eyes shone – they were almost unfocused, and yet there it was, that stubborn, unyielding determination I knew so well.

I remember the way we walked down, the way you shivered, violently, whenever a new fit came up, but you kept yourself upright, you did not waver, and when Dís opened the door and saw you, you just raised your hand, anxious to keep your state from Fíli and Kíli.

“Dwalin, you know the house”, she simply said, eyes darkened by worry, yet composed.

I smiled, and then I pushed you towards your room, and though you scowled as I drew my arm around your waist, and tried to push me away, I almost carried you for the last steps, and had you yielding enough once we finally reached your bed.

“I... can manage.”

The words came out tight, and I took a sharp look at you – and then I just nodded, knowing you needed to prove it to yourself.

“Right. I'll fetch some water.”

I took the pitcher that was standing close to the mirror, next to the basin you used to clean yourself up – a sliver of privacy in a lively household with small children you could not afford to wake when you left early or came home late.

I came back to find you barefoot, in tunic and breeches, looking thoroughly drained, clenching your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering.

“Hey. Let's cool your head down. You are squinting.

\- _Nonsense_...

\- You are. Arms up.”

I pulled your tunic from you body, with your shirt and undershirt, and then I handed you a wet rag, pressing it into your palm.

“There. Hold this against your forehead. And lean against me, will you?”

You groaned again, and I shifted slightly so as to be able to have your back against my chest, taking another soaked rag, beginning to rub it against your skin so as to brush your sweat away – and I could feel you flinch.

“It's cold...

\- Yeah. That's the point.

\- It's cold, Dwalin.

\- Hold still.”

You did. You were so still against me, your hand had dropped and the wet rag was drenching your thigh, but I could feel you relax, slightly, despite the chills running through your body, as I cleaned you up slowly.

“I don't... I don't even remember what I signed.”

The words came out low and slightly slurred – you had closed your eyes again.

“You agreed to tidy up my room and cook for Balin and me until Durin's Day.

\- _Idiot_.”

The faintest smile on your lips, soon vanishing as a new fit came up – and I could feel you tense, trying to fight it off, letting out another faint groan. I brushed your forehead, making sure to keep the damp cloth against your skin, and for a while none of us moved – both of us waiting for your chills to ebb.

“She will... she will be there any moment.”

You were still lying against me, still had your eyes closed, and I slowly removed the rag from your forehead, testing it with the back of my hand.

“Dwalin. I don't want to...

\- She doesn't care, Thorin. She would not mind.

\- But I do.”

You had opened your eyes, were staring at the wall in front of you – and though you were barely lucid, I knew exactly where your thoughts had begun to take you.

 _That godforsaken tent_... Mahal, Thorin. Mahal.

“There is... on the chair. There is a change of... It should do. If you...

\- Did someone ever tell you that you are the most fastidious, little prude ever setting foot, hammer and axe upon Arda, Thorin?

\- If I am a prude, then you are... you are...”

You had leaned your palms against the bed, and were trying to focus on my moves – because I was obeying, and was fetching these clothes for you. Of course I was.

“I'm waiting. And you are _definitely_ squinting.

\- Cut it, Dwalin. One of you is enough.”

You grabbed shirt and undershirt and fought your way through them, and then you pulled on the tunic, and the trousers, with slow, tired moves.

“Right”, you whispered, once it was done. “I think I...

\- Just lie down. She'll come in a moment.

\- I...”

But I was already easing you down, propping you up against your pillow, pulling off your blanket so that you would not be too hot – and I carefully buttoned your tunic up, for you had missed one of the laces.

“There. All decent and proper. But still squint- hey, watch it!

\- Watch it yourself...”, you muttered, your hand still resting on the forearm you had pinched ruthlessly, and growing heavier with each second. “I'm fine.

\- He's fine”, I said to Dís who had entered the room a moment before, and was currently lifting her eyebrows. “He says he's fine. Everybody can see that.”

My voice was dripping with sarcasm, and she just rolled her eyes, setting down the tray she was carrying and sitting down on the bed close to you. You had turned your face towards her and she gently shook her head, resting her palm against your brow.

“Will you ever change?”, she asked, softly, stroking your hair. “Balin told me it is a wonder you understood a single _word_ of the contracts you discussed today. He does not even know how you managed to sign them. Surely, Thorin...

\- Balin just... tells... stories.”

Bright, unfocused eyes, and a flushed, drawn face – but so much stubbornness, even leaning into her touch.

“Are they... are they sleeping?”

She drew an arm around your shoulders and helped you sit up.

“Yes. They asked for you, though. And they insisted to crush the herbs – well, Fíli did, and Kíli wrinkled his nose and made a point to tell us just how disgusting it smelled.”

You smiled, and your fingers tightened around the cup – you loved them so much. They had changed so much, for you.

“You... you told them? That I... will be up tomorrow. You told them I...

\- I told them you needed some rest. They are old enough to understand.”

Her voice was quiet, and loving, but as unwavering as yours could be. No lies, no unnecessary shielding for her sons – the truth, without pretence. And I saw you yield – as so often when it came to the lads. You raised the cup to your lips and drank it, and though it made you shudder you did not complain. You even smiled, because Fíli had crushed the herbs for you, and because Kíli was right.

“Thank you”, you whispered. “I will be up tomorrow. I promise.

\- Yes. You will.”

She went on stroking you hair, waiting for you to close your eyes, and it did not last long. Soon your breathing deepened, and withing minutes you were fast asleep, your face still turned towards her.

She looked up at me, then, and as always I was struck by the likeness between you both. These eyes... That determined face, and the bearing as well.

“Goodness, Dwalin. I don't even want to know what he might have told the carpenters. Did anything he said even _begin_ to make sense?

\- Aye. Quite a performance to witness.”

I had spoken dryly, and she pressed her lips together, still stroking your hair.

“I hate this”, she said quietly. “The way he pushes himself to the limits. The way he doesn't even _care_.

\- He does. He does care for you.

\- You know this is not what I meant, Dwalin.”

She kept her voice low, her fingers still running through your hair – and it was almost mesmerising to see how each move seemed to plunge you deeper into sleep. But I still had to answer, and I did, after a while, thinking I had to go.

“We won't change him, Dís.”

Her gaze went up for a moment, meeting mine – and for some seconds we were in that tent as well, that accursed tent that had brought us all to a crisis, leaving none unharmed.

“No. We won't”, she answered, quietly, and then she stroked your forehead, one last time, before getting up, while I followed her out of your room.

You never changed.

Not even here. Not even during the quest, when grief caught up with you in Rivendell, when that Warg pierced your body while that Orc ruined your peace, when that Elvenking held you alone in that dungeon, letting fear and guilt drive you close to madness...

Not even when your mind crumbled, slowly, into these very walls you had once called home. I remember these first nights when you would stare wide-eyed into the darkness, unable to sleep, refusing to eat – tight, tense, on edge and so _wary_...

“It has to be found.”

Such were the only words I was able to drag from you, even as I placed a bowl of soup between your hands, trying to make you eat, to have that strange, worrying look leave that stony face I could not reach...

“We will. Have some dinner.

\- There is no time.

\- Thorin...

\- Eat then, if you must.”

Anger, in that blue gaze I used to know so well. Anger, and unvoiced despair, as you shoved the bowl back into my hands – how cold your fingers were... Cold, and hard, feeling so _foreign_ , so out of reach...

“I will find it. I promise. I promise...”, you whispered as you dragged yourself up, heading back to the staircases, to the hoard, to the gold, leaving friends and kin behind.

Yet I thought you were still talking to me... I still harboured the illusion that I could get through to you, somehow, as I always did... I knew you were withdrawn, I knew something had changed ever since you discovered that the Pale Orc was still alive, that I had known and kept it from you... I was aware that, though you still leaned into my touch whenever I helped you unlace your fur-coat and shed your chain-mail because you were too injured to do so alone, something between us had changed.

I thought you had lost faith in me. I thought this was the reason for the shadow on the bond we had. I thought this was why, when we finally had you out of Thranduil's dungeons – when I could see your gaze was still haunted, when, once safe in Laketown, I had you sitting close to me, your face turned towards the Mountain, so silent and yet so full of unspoken _fear_... I thought this was why you did not answer, did not speak – not really...

But now... now I know that it was worse, so much worse. I know you had begun to lost faith in yourself – and never found it back.

You just faked it, sparrow. Even on that sunrise we thought we had you back. You just faked it, because this was you, and you never changed.

“I wish I could have seen the rat's face, at least.”

The words took a moment to reach you, and when they did you frowned, your gaze leaving the Mountain for a while.

“Whose face?”

The Company was asleep. There was no guard, that tall Man had assured us we were safe. The only one still awake was Balin – and my brother knew how to hide his awareness, always did and always will.

I had you alone and with me, dressed in worn-out Mannish clothes that we all had to roll up – but somehow you still looked kingly. The way you held yourself – and that gaze...

“That pointy-eared bastard's, of course.

\- Oh. _Thranduil_.”

I never knew someone more able to make a name sound like an insult. It was all in the voice, in the way you seemed to drag the syllabs in mud, coating them with contempt and hatred.

“You saw him.... talked to him... back there, didn't you? We only got to see his son. And some of his guards. Men and women alike, if you ask me.”

Your lip curled in disgust, for a second, but you did not answer. You just turned your gaze towards the window, towards these tall, sharp slopes – and I could feel you slip away from me. I reached out, and laid a hand on your forearm, slowly.

“Have you been... have they been... Are you... They did not hurt you?”

A pained expression crossed your face and I removed my hand, wishing I had my brother's golden tongue, or at least something of that Halfling's wit.

“They are _Elves_ , Dwalin. Nothing to expect. And their King... their King will rue the day he refused to help Durin's folk soon, rest assured.”

Steel, in your voice, in your eyes, in the way your body moved away from me, ever so slightly – enough to make me feel I was not wanted, not needed, that you would not speak of what had happened while you were alone and desperate. That, whatever it was that scared you, was making your gaze flicker with barely-concealed anguish, you would not speak of it.

That night, in Erebor, I was wrong in thinking you were still speaking to me. It was not me you muttered these words to, not me you saw when you promised me to find the Arkenstone – not me you wanted to reassure and yet flee away from...

“Ahem... If I might... Dwalin?”

The Halfling's voice was not above a whisper, and I remember thinking I really had to stop. Calling him Halfling, Burglar, or Hobbit. He had a name, Durin's beard. And yet, somehow, we never used names between us. He did not talk to me, and I did not talk to him – we helped each other in a different way. Me carrying him, through the Misty Mountains and even through Mirkwood, whenever his small legs would fail him.

And him... Him making you seem lighter. Making you smile. Reaching you even when it was plain enough to see that I couldn't anymore.

Yes – I think he has managed it. To become my friend as well. He is very skilled, that little Burglar, very skilled indeed. I have no idea of the way he thinks, and feels – and I doubt I ever will. But I know he will always count, because he mattered to you, and because you mattered to him as well. I know that. And this is enough for me.

“Forgive me. A word with you?”

I just nodded. I had been busy checking out the old armouries – thinking of these long forgotten days where a small, dark-haired Dwarfling had vowed he would never speak to me again, that I was dead to him... and had managed to achieve it at last, once strong and grown, his locks crossed with silver and his gaze hard as steel.

“I... I know you are close to Thorin. This is why I think... I think you could help.

\- Well, Thorin won't let me.”

I had growled out the words – feeling guilty to let my rage show in front of such a little creature. But then, Bilbo had proven many times that there was more than meets the eye in him, and I have always known when it was safe, to let anger show.

It was safe with you, with your sister, my brother... and him.

“Thorin won't let _anyone_.”

His voice was firm, and his eye-roll somewhat soothing. Because it reminded me of Dís. And, of course, because it also reminded me of _him_. It was enough to make me gaze up to him and listen – and his hazel eyes had taken a softer shade as he spoke again.

“Dwalin, I am sorry if it seems like prying, but... I understand that... though Thorin has a sister, he also had... He used to have...

\- A brother. He had a brother. He fell in battle, long ago.

\- Yes”, the Halfling said, simply. “He told me so.

\- He _what_?”

The words came out as ashen as my face, Mahal forgive me, but I could not believe it. You, who never said his name aloud, you who never spoke of him, of what had happened, of the way it had broken your heart and stolen your sun for decades...

“Well, not in so many words... I did not get it straight at once, it took some time. In the dungeons, you know... He was – the first days, he was not... not himself. As you all were. These Spiders, and that forest... He talked. Not always Westron, and every once in a while not even your language, I think... It did not make much sense, not at once. But as the venom's power lessened, I began to understand and in the end... in the end we talked. A little. I never asked anything. I just tried to put the pieces together. And I asked your brother.

\- Yeah. I bet you did.”

My words came out low – there still was rage in them, and I did not know myself who it was directed at. The Spiders and these accursed Elves, I think. But maybe you as well. You, who did not even say a _word_ about how dreadful it must have been, lying there alone in that dungeon, ghosts hovering around you, waiting for you to break.

“Dwalin, I did not mean to pry. It is just... You _see_ it, don't you? That he's different. That it's not the Thorin we used to know. He is... he is on edge. He is behaving strangely... and I think he might... he might be, you know, _deluded_ somehow... seeing things.”

I let out a shaky breath – this was you we were discussing, you, my King, my warm-hearted, strong, wonderful friend, and I could not bear it. But it did not mean I could just shut my eyes and ears. You deserved more than that.

“What things?”, I asked, and the Halfling – _Bilbo_ – frowned in sympathy.

“People he lost. People he missed. Just like in the Dungeons, but... it gets worse, every day. He's there, wandering in the gold, and he is talking aloud, but there is no one there. No one, and when I go to him, when he takes my hand and speaks to me – earnest, caring words... I think sometimes he does not see me. He speaks _Khuzdûl_ to me, Dwalin. And even when he does not – sometimes he is there, it is all clear, and sometimes he speaks to me about staying safe, about keeping to the rocks, about a lake as well, and he calls me... he calls me as he used to call him, I suppose. I'm sorry. I did not mean to pry. It's just that I happen to have an ear for languages. He... he called him ' _kudz_ ', didn't he?”

Now this was proof. Shattering, terrible, heart-wrenching proof, and I had to close my eyes and to lean against the wall, feeling bile rise in my throat, because this was worse than anything I could have imagined.

“Aye. He did.”

And there, in that old armoury – away from everyone, from my brother, the Company, and you especially... There I finally acknowledged it – that terrible fear, and the sadness as well. There, just like Balin would do it later – there I let myself slide down on the ground, and allowed my eyes to spill, silently.

For him. The long lost, bright little brother whose memory was breaking you.

And for you, of course.

Already there, Thorin, I mourned for you.

“Dwalin... There must be something we can do. You know him. You know what it is he sees. He is not alone, he... he still has you. And Balin. And Fíli and Kíli. It gets worse when he's close to the treasure. And he's getting weak. Anyone would have trouble thinking with an empty stomach, and without sleep. All we have to do is lure him from the gold. Make him focus on something else. Until we find out how to cure him.”

He looked at me and there was so much hope, so much strength... It was so strange. There he stood, tiny as a child, with that curly hair and that twitching nose, in that small waistcoat of his – and yet I understood, suddenly, why the Wizard used to say he needed him around.

“What is it he cares about? What do you think Thorin would hold almost as important as gold? What is it he loves, find sense in?

\- The forge...”, I let out, still leaning against the wall. “But they are nothing but a mess. You saw it yourself.

\- Yes. Beautiful bellows, though. Never saw its likeness before. Bombur was wonderful. And so was Balin, and you.”

He was smiling. That little Halfling. Content with memories of friends fighting together.

“What else, Dwalin? What is it he revels in – defines himself with? What is it you both share?

\- Fighting. War. Night watches. Safety.”

He was dragging out the words from me like poison from a wound, and it hurt. To say aloud what we had shared, and lost. To think that we had both been warriors, and son of warriors, and that somehow even after all these years and aches, we still had that.

“Exactly. Make him check out the defenses. Ramparts, walls, doors, and armouries. Say you are unsure, say you do not know Erebor as well as he does. Say you are worried about the treasure's safety if you must. Make him leave the gold. Let him catch up with exhaustion and hunger away from that accursed treasure... and give him what he needs then.

\- You make it sound so easy...

\- It's not. He's not. But you know how to handle him. And don't say no. You do. In the dungeons, Dwalin... he used to call for you, as well.”

Kindness, in that low-voiced sentence, and also in the way he left, straight after that. Letting me find enough strength and hope in these words to do as he had suggested – and it worked. It worked, and I was torn between relief and shame, once I saw anguish invade your gaze at the mention that the treasure's safety might be endangered.

Relief, and shame, when I saw some of the distance in your gaze vanish, replaced by awareness, when I saw you bend a knee to draw a rough map of Erebor's defences for me on one of the dusty stairs, shoving some coins aside without thinking, your hand closing around my wrist with cold, cold fingers to steady yourself, eager to drag me close, to make me see...

“The ramparts... They have crumbled, Thorin. I think we have to reinforce them.

\- The ramparts...”, you voiced, and there was longing and ache and memory in every line of your face – that face that was not hard and distant anymore, but pale and drained.

“Yes. You are right. Come. Tell the others to keep looking, meanwhile. I'll be back.”

These last words you whispered turning your gaze towards the gold again, and for a while I saw you waver, saw your body being drawn to the treasure like iron to a magnet – but then you blinked and dragged yourself up the stairs. To the ramparts. Not doubting for a second that I'd follow – and rightly so.

I remember the way you blinked, again, when we reached these walls – that wall-walk between wall and Mountain where guards used to stand, where you had stood so often yourself.

“Come. It is... It is a long way. There are... there are many walks.”

You were steadying yourself with a hand against the stone, and I could see how wasted you had become in these few, terrible days – your gaze hollow, your lips bloodless.

“Right, sparrow. Lead the way.”

You blinked at the fond word, and I could see your knees begin to sag – but then you pulled yourself up and willed your body into action.

“There is a main... a main wall-walk. And then there are several... several parapets. I will show you. I remember.”

And there I had you, taking my hand, dragging me along or at least trying to, because soon I had you stagger, soon I had you lean against me, letting out the faintest of groans – your hair drenched with sweat, and your face ashen.

“Dwalin...”

Panic in your gaze, in the way your body searched for mine, reached out for the stone – in that hurried breath, that shaking hand. You were so exhausted, so drained – and yet you had not been aware of it, had not even noticed, and struggled to understand what was happening.

“Hey. Sparrow. Hey. It's alright. It's alright. You just have to eat. Warm yourself up a bit.

\- I don't... Dwalin... I don't remember... I have eaten. With you. We said we would leave early. With Dáin. Chase these Orcs away...

\- No, Thorin. Not today...

\- But we have been there. Dwalin. We watched... we watched what happened.”

You were shivering now – it was so painful to see you like this, and yet I was also relieved, relieved because this was my sparrow, somehow, this was the trusting friend who still managed to voice some of his fears... Mahal bless the Halfling for his insight... Mahal bless him... Mahal bless him because he made me go there with you alone, so as to be able to shield you, so that no one would see you in that wretched state – you would have hated it...

“Yes. Eat now. Have some bread and cheese, Thorin.”

I held you close, I made us both sit down, leaning against the ramparts, our feet resting against the Mountain's slope – and then I watched you eat. Hunger soon reached through your dizziness, and you were ravenous, but years and years of restraint and careful rationing prevented you from throwing yourself at the food. You just ate, silently, leaning against me – and when you were done you just stayed like that.

“Thirsty?”

You nodded, and I handed you my flask. I watched you drink, your gaze unfocused – just like that day in the Ered Luin where I had you fevered and weak at my side, and I gently brushed your shoulder, thinking that I would never leave you, and shield you from everyone's gaze until you recovered.

“I feel... I feel strange”, you whispered. “My head... It's not clear, Dwalin. I'm so _sleepy_...

\- That's because you stayed awake for days”, I said, as gently as I could, and my hand moved up to trail through your hair. “Kept pacing and watching.

\- Nonsense, Dwalin. No one can stay awake for days. Not even me. You know that.”

Your voice was slurred, and your body had begun to sag against mine. Oín's doing, of course - determinedly brewing a sleeping draught for his King, because we had all understood that the only way to serve you was to betray you. Oh Thorin...

“Dwalin, tell them to keep looking. It has to... be found. It... has to.

\- It will. Sleep now. Get some rest.”

You gave a deep sigh, and then you gave in. Leaned your head against my shoulder, allowed your hair to fall down so as to hide your face – and let sleep take you. Huddled against me, nestled against the ramparts.

I wish we had kept you like this. Drugged, unable to harm yourself. Restrained, if needed. But these are terrible thoughts, unfit for any friend – and it would have been more than a harmless lie, it would have been treason, and the worst way to show you that you were right to doubt yourself...

I am glad I did not do it. I am glad I simply wrapped your arms around my neck and caught you under the knees to carry you back into the Mountain – unseen, shielded from every gaze, until we reached the wing we used to rest, so that I could lay you down on a proper bed, remove your boots and place a blanket above your body, so that you could recover from the toll of these past days.

This was our one and only victory – the only moment where we were still able to get through to you, because after that you did not let us, stayed hard and spiteful and cold and too withdrawn and suspicious to be reached anymore...

And it feels like such a waste, but I am still absurdly glad we managed it nonetheless, and that I was able to allow you this one moment of weakness, unseen and unjudged. I am glad it happened with me – because I know that, should you still be alive and should I have to tell you about it, it would not have hurt your pride and stirred your shame the way it would have, should the Company have witnessed.

I may have betrayed you, Thorin. But I never did anything you would not have done for me, and I never will.

That is why I did not fetch Dáin myself. That is why I did not leave you lying there on the stone, alone – looking so vulnerable, so unlike yourself... I have no right to leave you like this, for anyone to see. I have no right to expose you. Not in actions, not in words. I owe you so much more than that.

And so I gently run my hands against your chest, your arms, and your forehead, and then I pick up the trousers Glóin and Dori have picked up for you.

“They are warm. All proper, clean, and without holes or folds, I made sure of that. They should fit the purpose, fit the purpose indeed.”

Dori's fastidious way to say he grieved, and wanted you to know he'd still hold up the mask and go through that _purpose_ as you would have seen it fit.

“They come from the royal quarters. Fetched them myself. Must have been cut for his father – or grandfather. Fit for a King, laddie. Fit for a King.”

And Glóin sobbing on my shoulder then, helplessly – hard, sometimes stingy words giving way to emotion, as always. Because despite everything, Glóin knew true values, and they had nothing to do with coins, or gold. 

“So does the belt. High-class material. Polished and bright – definitely no forgery, if you ask me. Even matches the tunic. They knew how to live here.”

Nori's dry voice, his hair  twisted up again, even with that deep cut in his cheek and his arm in a sling. Leaning against the wall, refusing to look towards you – that's where I knew just how much he grieved. He never looked away, always made a point to drill his gaze into yours until you snapped at him, or shrugged your shoulders, or smiled – every once in a while.

The thief and the King-in-exile,  rubbing along until provocation gave  way to understanding. Until both understood they could trust the other, that there was no real difference in their aims, and in what they held dear...

They sorted out your boots, and the fur-coat to match your clothes – for you, and for the lads. They gave it to me before I came to you – and I know that the others are at work as well. That Bifur, Bofur and Bombur are trying hard to make the stone worthy of you all – carving deep blocks, moving them along with D á in's men, so as to build tombs fit for a King and his Princes. And I know that Ori, little Ori, is the one carving runes upon the marble – because no one could be fitter, because it is his way to carry himself through the night, because he tries to find sense in letters and words, as usual, even when sense is long lost...

You would be so proud of them, Thorin...

And I want you to be proud of me too. I want you to know I will never have anyone looking at you in commiseration, or in misplaced pity.

So I gently move your legs and pull the trousers up, until they fit you, until your skin is covered up to the hips. I brush your hipbones, adjust the edge so that there is no fold, so that the undershirt is tucked in properly and then I close the buttons, thinking it feels right.

I do not care I promised.

I just reach out for the shirt – because this is what you would have wanted: me, not Dáin, no one but me. I hold you against me, I sit you up gently – and then I pull the shirt over you head, with careful moves, before I guide your arms down the sleeves, before I straighten the shirt on your back, before I bend, and kiss your hair silently, holding you against my chest for some seconds – because it feels right.

I pick up the tunic then, another layer to wrap you in, to make you look like yourself once more – and I don't even need to move, you are resting against my chest and it feels so, so right... I just do it all over again, and when it's done I cross my arms on your back and squeeze, ever so slightly, burying my face in your hair.

I cry, then. Because I won't tell anyone. Because all these soft moments with you were so private, so different from all these days where you acted as a King, and never let us down, that I won't share them. That is something you will take away with you, because I know you would have wanted it to remain private.

Just like your tears, your scars, your hurt and grief, your sense of loss, your madness – and even some of your smiles.

I love you so much, Thorin. It feels like my heart is going to burst – because surely there is no sense in all this being over, in an eyeblink, because of war, of life, of fate... Surely there is no sense in that – you in my arms, and my face in your hair, shield-brothers finally cloven apart...

The hand on my shoulder is rough, but warm. It rubs soothing circles, silently – it doesn't tell me to let go, to wrap you in that jerkin and belt and be done – it's simply there.

And I know it is Dáin, but I don't turn. I just wait for my tears to stop, and then I allow my lips to meet your hair one last time, before I release my embrace and guide your arms into the leather jerkin he hands me.

He stands there, but does not come forth. He just hands me the belt, when I am done, and then the socks, and boots, and the fur-coat. Ready to step in, but never intruding, and never saying a word – not until you lie upon the stone again, finally clad, finally looking strong, and mighty, and like yourself again.

Only then, when I reach out for your rings and pull them back on your fingers, when I make sure the tiny golden chain rests once more around your neck, hidden against your chest – only then does Dáin speak, and his voice is low, and tired.

“He looks like he's asleep.”

I just stroke your hair, thinking that I will have to ask Balin to braid it – it is the only thing still amiss, the final touch I cannot bring myself to add.

“I feel like he's asleep. It is all so... unreal, Dwalin.”

I look up, and there is sadness in his brown gaze – sadness, despair, grief and an overwhelming weariness. Something I could begin to understand. Something I share, I guess. Deep inside. Even though I barely feel alive, right now.

“They gave me back his sword”, he says, simply, and I notice Orcrist for the first time – sharpened, polished, cleaned from blood and gore.

“And they also... they also brought back the Arkenstone. The wizard says it belongs here... that it has to remain with him... that we should carve it into his tomb, never to be removed.

\- He never touched it...”, I whisper, and my voice is broken, just like everything here.

“He never got to lay a finger upon that jewel. It drew him... It made him... And now they just hand it back?”

There are tears in my eyes, and they flow. It is all so unfair, Thorin. It is all so screwed, and broken, and wrong. I wish I could feel anger, but all I feel is lost – I do not know how this world works anymore.

“Hey, Dwals... Hey now...”

 _Dwals_.

Another name from a long forgotten past. A name as old as the Iron Hills, it seems, and yet... Dáin and me, roaming the rocks, playing hide and seek – wrestling like mad, chasing the other, making fun... A name that speaks of a bond that is still there, somewhere, even though I left, followed you, and left him there to rule...

“It's alright. It's alright. If it were up to me, I could have them stick it right into their very arses – but then it is the Arkenstone, and I gave them enough stones and coins in return to make sure they never lack of things to shove into their stiff butts.”

The sound I let out is something close to a huff – maybe a sob, as well. He's mad. He's clearly mad. I don't even believe him, Thorin. I know he's not half of the hothead he pretends to be. He's a smart, fair ruler and he knows these poor Men need their share of the gold as well, to be able to rebuild their houses.

“What did you give the Elf?”, I ask, and my voice still sounds rough.

“Nothing yet”, he answers, and his arm is still around my back, rubbing circles in my shoulder. “I just made sure they all got supplies, and were able to care for their wounded. They also suffered losses. But I confess I cannot bring myself to feel much sympathy for their King... and that I definitely have to understand why he came there in the first place. I just spoke to that Wizard – Gandalf – and to that Man, Bard.

\- That King is... that King does not even _deserve_ to be called like that. He's... he's...”

But there my voice chokes. It is still too close, too early. I don't want to speak about this. I don't want to live through this, not now, not yet.

“Hey. You'll tell me in your own time, Dwals. It doesn't really matter now, does it? We'll have plenty of time to discuss it later.

\- I... I'm sorry I didn't wait for you... It's just that he...

\- Dwals. It's alright. I knew. I just wanted to make sure you'd fetch me, in the end.”

There's a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and it's a sad one, even though it's warm. It's the one he gave to me when I was just a boy, and told him I would leave the Hills to stay with you. It's the one saying ' _I know I am no match_ ', and it is a sad one, but it is also brave, and warm.

Just like he is.

“Did you rest a bit? Have time to wash, and change clothes? Did you eat?

\- I...”

It is strange, how lost I feel – how close I feel to you, there on the ramparts, struggling to remember when you last had been aware of your body...

“I'm not sure, Dáin. I'm not injured, though. I think. Yes. Oín looked it up. I'm fine.

\- Dwals...”

And that soft word is enough to make me sag against him. I'm so tired. The world around me is blurred, and inside it's even worse. Inside it feels like molten lead, like mud sloshing through my chest – like a deep, deep fog.

“I'll tell you what I know. I know you washed, because you smell of soap, and because there's no blood on your clothes. I know you're not seriously injured, but that Oín still managed to stich up half of your body. I know you have not eaten, and I know you just slept for some minutes when Balin came in.

\- You're making this up.

\- No. I don't. I brought you some soup. And a blanket. Eat and get some sleep. I'll watch over him, I promise.

\- Don't...”

But you are clad now. Clad, and looking handsome, stern and proper as ever. You are yourself now. You are not mine anymore. There is no need to watch out, to stand guard, to shield – it is all done, all done save your hair, and I cannot do that.

They said the funeral would be held in the early afternoon – that though we had to get you ready for sunrise, it was to bring you down into the crypts, so as to be able to stretch you down, and light the candles – and gather every able man and warrior to bid you farewell.

I know when it is wiser to yield, Thorin.

I know when I'm no match, anymore.

And so I just nod, in the end. Take the bowl of soup he has brought me and eat, slowly, recognising something of Bombur's taste through the fog in my mind, and chest, and mouth. And then I just stretch myself on the ground, close to you and Dáin, and close my eyes.

I don't care it's barely comfortable. There's only lead in my head, and in my body – and though I'm willing enough to sleep, and let him watch over you, I don't want to leave you.

I flinch when I sense hands on my shoulders – when Dáin lifts my head to rest it on his thigh, and when he folds his own fur-coat to slide it under my back.

“You promised to stand watch...”, I let out, and he gives me the softest of nudges.

“I did. I do. Close your eyes now. Stop acting silly.”

And Mahal forgive me, Thorin, but I do. I'm no match, and I know he's right. I feel so weak, and so tired – and there is an other ordeal to come soon, I don't want to shame you, I want to stand tall at your side one last time.

After all, he's there. He promised...

Forgive me if I sleep, Thorin. I'm still there. It just feels blurred, and somewhat unreal – and I wish you could take me with you, that I could feel your cold fingers around my wrist, that imperious pull, and your warm body against mine...

But I don't. I just let darkness take me, for a while – because Dáin is there and that his hand on my shoulder, and his thigh under my head, and the warmth of the blanket... it doesn't feel right, not really – but it helps.

It helps, Thorin...

It soothes.

Somehow.

It soothes.

  
  


**Neo-Khuzdûl translations** :

\- _Malagnul-zarz_ : literally, 'tree-that-is-sacred'. A completely made-up equivalent for 'holy-bark', which is an other name for quinine, originally isolated from the bark of the cinchona tree – the cure against malaria, also called 'marsh fever'. Yep, not really sounding like Middle Earth, but I did my best :).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I cannot believe you are still there, and cannot thank you enough. It has been three months, and I am sorry. I changed practice, I am four and a half months away from finishing residency, I have a lot of guards and my PhD to write in the meantime, and actually no one cares :).
> 
> I am a bit nervous. It is the first time I ever finished a fanfic. Because yes, this one has reached its last chapter. Thirteen, like the Dwarves of Thorin's company. I want to thank you deeply for having followed all along. It is sad, it was not easy to write and I hope this conclusion will not disappoint. I also want to tell you that your messages and reviews truly kept me going. I had a rough time from February till May, and it would have been even rougher without you, so thank you.
> 
> Some notes at the end, as usual. And maikhmini, lads.

The sound awakening me is soft.

It's like a lullaby, a lament too deep to be sung properly – just a low, never-ending succession of the same small words. So simple. So common. So full of grief.

“Oh laddie… Oh lad… Laddie… My lad...”

Balin's voice is low, and tears run quietly down his cheek, into his snow-white beard, along his broad nose, these features I know by heart now softened by age – but he keeps himself upright, his small, stout frame as solid as ever, and yet…

And yet there are tears running down my brother's cheeks. Soundless, effortless, unhidden – an old Dwarf's tears, laced with the weight brought only by age and too many witnessed sufferings.

“My lad… My laddie...”

His hands are cradling your face. His fingertips are running through your hair, drawing soft curves, still trying to soothe, even with you long past his reach. His palm is cupping your cheek and there, in the light dawn is casting upon the stone, I see my brother bent upon you – at the very evening of his life, while the course of your own sun has been broken.

It is so wrong, Thorin. So unfair.

And I cannot believe that after all these years, after so many battles, and wars, and fights, and deaths and killings and well-dealt blows, my heart is still raging against the ruthless truth that people die, their lives snatched away without any consideration for worth, age, merit and fairness.

“Lad...”

He is braiding your hair. Quietly. Lovingly. His fingers running through your raven mane, as nimbly as ever. Weaving Durin's pattern into your locks, fastening it on the back of your head in the plain fashion you always favoured – no complex, kingly braids for you, Thorin, no pearls, no beads, no jewels...

_I am not my grandfather._

It was not contempt. Not really. It was fear – so often, a bone-deep fear that broke you, in the end. But it was also sadness, and shame I would have erased so gladly. Because you had no proper kingdom. Because you only were King-in-exile, striving hard so that your people would never have to starve. Because the Halls they named after you in the Ered Luin were practical, strong and almost unadorned, offering shelter and warmth, food and safety – but not more, never more, never enough…

Or so you thought.

Thorin…

“Oh laddie… Oh lad… My lad… my lad...”

It is such a soft whisper. Such a deep, deep grief, as Balin weaves your grandfather's pattern into the two braids circling your face.

Telling the world you endured. So much. More than anyone should ever have.

Telling them how much you treasured your people, above all – your people, but also your kin, your family and friends, and were treasured in return.

Telling them how you tried to protect. Always – grimly and fiercely. Your people, your Mountain. Anyone but yourself.

That's what I had sworn to do. That is where I failed you, Thorin. That is where that Orc's blade outran me, and may I be cursed and disavowed if I ever dare to forget that narrow, deep slit below your ribs, piercing through your lung and back…

I did not shield you. I did not protect you. And you have left me, left me there, and I will have to live through this, every day of my life until I die.

Left there to wonder when exactly you started to slip away – what I missed, what I failed to see, and when I began to lull myself with the false belief that I had you safe and sound, when I should have known you were no tamed love-bird, but my fierce and restless sparrow, always yearning for horizons far beyond his reach.

But perhaps we have both always known. Perhaps we knew, even then in the Iron Hills close to that obstacle course, that it was all a lie, that there was no guarantee, no real safety. That it was all a reprieve, and nothing more.

“My lad...”

My sparrow.

“My laddie...”

My friend.

“My lad...”

My cousin, my brother, my King, my shadow, my light, my curse, my blessing, my pain-in-the-ass, my wonder, my shield, my companion, my thrice-accursed hothead, my skilled fighter, my reckless captain, my stubborn idiot, my warmth, my sun, my stupid, ridiculous, vital _purpose_ in that silly world that is not working the way it should…

My little prude, my hopelessly lost-above-ground fool, my brave, wonderful, loving, mad, broken, lost, caring, truthful, unique Thorin…

Thorin.

Thorin.

 _Thorin_.

You have more shades and lights than the Arkenstone itself. You are far more precious, and even after almost two centuries, I still haven't solved the riddle you embodied.

I just know that, somehow, I have to yield. Let you go. Accept that they will never know, that it will fade, that very complexity of yours that cannot survive with you dead.

You will become a symbol. A figure. A hero sung high by warrior-songs. A marble statue whose chiselled fingers shall rest upon that Elven blade, to ward off evil, while the Arkenstone will lay against your chest, its shine trying to atone for the blood you shed, its light forever hidden now that you have gone.

They will make your death grand. They will make our adventures sound like the bravest of tales. They will shape your memory until you will become one of the most renowned Dwarven Kings, renowned because he claimed back his kingdom, because he lost his mind but managed to recover it, and fell like a hero along with his sister-sons.

There will be no room for doubt. For hurt. For that softness you had as well, hidden between layers and layers of hard-earned shields. No room for telling who you truly were. No room for the Thorin I knew and cherished, no matter what you did and how you ended – no room behind the King who reclaimed the Mountain and fell.

No room to display the many precious, complex shades of the light you gave us. No riddle, among the warrior-songs. No complexity to feel awe, and wonder at the very miracle of what you embodied, and achieved, lost and found back.

No room to say quietly : he used to nestle against my shoulder. He used to circle my chest with his arms, and clench his fingers around the back of my tunic, shifting them slightly once he was sure I would keep close.

He used to frown when he was deep in thought, and did not care if it passed for a scowl. His voice turned icy when he was afraid, and people mistook his fear for coldness – and called him harsh and fearless.

He used to lash out whenever his grief was too deep for him to remember the words asking me not to leave – sometimes his fists have been the only link between us, in dark times of losses and hurt.

He turned deadly quiet and still when he was in pain, not uttering a sound, his breath so silent it looked like he was resting – seemingly unbreakable, yet screaming inside. And he never found any relief in poppy-seeds, vomiting so hard the very mention of it made him turn pale – and hated it with a passion only Elves could claim to share.

He was never interested when it came to drinking, having sex and other bodily trifles – when the point was to let go and be nothing more than a fool, because he was too upright, too serious, and far too burdened for that.

He loved touch to the point he fled from it, so that it could never become a weakness, because he thought it would made him stronger, less vulnerable, and because he believed he did not deserve it.

He had the most wonderful smile, for those lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it – it made him look like a boy, made his very beard seem softer, and lighted everything in his face. And when he laughed, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly, he had the childish habit of looking down, lowering his head – because sternness and gravity had been drilled into him with his first braids, and because it always caught him by surprise.

He loved music, and could play the harp like no one – he carved notes just like jewels, and he was no match in both trades, because deep inside he ever was more than a warrior, a leader and a King: a soulful, gifted craftsman whose voice had been choked ever since fire and war.

What a song it would be, Thorin… Not even rhyming, without any note… It is better kept hidden, deep down in my chest, shared with no one but those who truly knew you, and they are so few… So few left now that the lads are gone…

Balin fastens your brother's hair-clasps around your braids, and he is mute now. Just gazing at you, lying there on the stone – in costly clothes that are still stern enough to fit you. Lying on the fur-coat in which you are to be draped – because you died in the winter, on ice and snow, above a frozen waterfall that used to mean the world to you.

“I know what has to be done”, he says, finally, and his voice is even, very calm. “I know where the crypts are. I know the sacred words that have to be spoken, the patterns of the runes that are to be carved, and every single protocol in use under Thrór's reign. I have spoken to Dáin, and everything is ready. There won't be a single mistake. None but… this. My lad. I would have had you crowned. I would have had you at peace. Resting. Rejoicing in what you achieved. I have lost enough Kings, Thorin. May you be the last. May you be _my_ last. Rest, laddie. The words shall be spoken, do not fret. My lad. Go, now. Go.”

And with these words he bends, and kisses your brow – and I know then, somehow, that we are feeling the same. The same emptiness, the same terrible feeling of utter wrongness, the same rage at being left behind when we would both have gladly died, just to see you live and rule. You, and the lads of course.

I do not know what happens, afterwards. I know Dáin is back, Dáin and the Company as well, and I feel hands on my forearms and I am giving hugs back, but I do not recognise any face – because all I see is yours, whenever I close my eyes. Yours, and the lads'.

I do not remember having entered the crypts, but I must have – and I probably helped carrying you, but I have no memory of these steps. I don't see anything, I am not really there. I have been left in that stone room, watching my brother sing you to eternal sleep, wishing to be dead myself – and I am afraid to stop talking to you.

So it takes me a while. To see you properly, you and them. Stretched upon the marble blocks that are to be your tombs, where Ori strove so hard to carve the runes telling the world who you were, what you did, and the blessings you are taking with you.

It takes me a while to notice that someone has placed the Arkenstone between your hands, and that its white light is shining upon your face, making you look crowned, even though your head remains bare. That Orcrist lies against your chest, covering the wound that caused your death, and that its slim curve matches everything in you – your chiselled cheekbones, your sharp nose and the hard, strong limbs that have made you the deadliest fighter I ever had the honour to face and serve.

I do not really care for the Arkenstone, or the sword, however. I am standing on one of the stairs, my arms tightly folded – they are lightening candles, making the cavern look like the most entrancing midsummer sky, but I do not care.

I just watch you stretched there, you and the lads, and they both look so tiny, compared to you, so young and perfect and handsome and brave. Reckless, bouncing Kíli – your little archer, your will-o'-wisp, the key of your new-found happiness. And swift, sharp Fíli – your faithful heir, always there because you had both taught each other to feel again.

They are lying on each side of you. Kíli on your right and Fíli on your left, exactly as you used to in battle – three deadly foes bound in blood and love.

You don't even look alike. Kíli has your height, but he is his father to the bone when it comes to the features. And the spirit, and the jokes. And Fíli is small, and stout, and his eyes are lighter than yours. He has Frerin's hair, Dís' smile, and your grandfather's eyes.

But their moves in battle were yours. Their concern, and care, and the intensity they put in whatever mattered to them, they shared with you. It was all unseen. Almost unsaid. But you shared so much, and I am so glad we laid you down like this: you in the middle, and them at your sides, so that I can dream you are embracing somewhere in the Halls of Waiting.

I should be angry at you. Because they followed you and lost their lives in the fight you chose to lead. Because if your death is unthinkable, theirs is an outrage. Because you should have left them behind.

But I am not.

I know they chose it. I know they would never have accepted to leave your side. I know you saw them as the able warriors they were, and trusted them in the choices they made despite their young age, because they had nothing left to prove. I know you asked them to stay behind. Begged them, in the Ered Luin, and pleaded wordlessly even here, in Erebor, just before you lead the charge. Extended your hands and just looked at them – wide-eyed, desperate, unable to speak, until they both nestled against your chest, each one taking hold of one of your arms before touching foreheads.

“Together, uncle”, Fíli said firmly, and Kíli squeezed your chest even harder.

“Together”, he said, grimly. “We are not staying behind. We are your heirs. They'd better take that in.”

I remember how you closed your eyes, then. Tightly, while your chest quivered helplessly. And they held you. Until you found enough strength to gather your shattered bits to be able to pretend, one last time. Giving orders, advices, urging everybody on, our King to the bone again – but your eyes empty and lost.

And now I see it. That you had never planned to return. That your design had ever been to die on that battlefield – either after achieving victory, after making sure those you loved were safe forever, or at their side. That there was nothing I could have done, because you did not want to return and live on after that.

That you had only ever wanted to claim the Mountain for Fíli, that you had never planned to rule, that should you all have lived, you still might have withered now that your deeds were honoured – because you were tired of pretending, because what you yearned for was not to be found in this world, not anymore.

And that, after Dragon-sickness wrought its damages through your mind and soul, you did not even think yourself worthy to live anymore. I know that empty look. I have seen it once, close to burning pyres, and felt just as helpless as I did here. I should have recognised it. But I was too eager to try to shield you, make you win, find my way back to you.

I ever was the silly, hopeful one, Thorin.

Even now, I hope. That you are not alone. That you see just how many candles there are here, one for every mourning Dwarrow, determined to lead you all to the light. That the lads are embracing you, touching foreheads with you, telling you it is not your fault.

That you forgive yourself. Please. Thorin. I am not there to hammer these words in your thick skull – not there to place my hands on your shoulders and shake you until they begin to sink in. Not there to assure myself you are fine.

Not there. Not there. Just watching.

The shadow falling on my right is broad, and tall. Bear-like, although the shape is a Man's. I don't even look up. I know it is the Skin-changer – he who closed your eyes, he who carried you away while I only followed.

“His Raven-friend died”, he says softly, and his deep voice rings through my chest, just like the sobs I won't let out. “I could not mend his bones. I am sorry.”

I look up, and somehow I understand. That it is his way to tell me he is sorry for you, as well. For you, and the lads – that it hurts him in that deep, animal way he has. That he understands, and grieves, and is yearning for more sense and less bloodshed as well.

“He told me who he was. He loved him. He said his chest was the only true nest he ever had, that his heart was warm as embers and his arms strong as oaken-branches. That he loved what was small, and fragile, and helpless, and that he allowed it to thrive under his care. That a tree is not to be judged by the lightening who struck and burnt it, but by the ground beneath, the life inside, and the moss on its trunk. That no Raven could wish for a better friend.”

I swallow. There are tears in my eyes, tears in my chest, tears in my throat, and I cannot answer. I can just stand here, and let out a broken sound.

“Aye.

\- He asked to be buried with him. Against his chest, where he came to life.”

I look up, then, and see a small, thin, wooden crate in his broad hands. He must have made it himself, Mahal knows when, and the craftsmanship is somewhat primitive, but it is truthful, and real, and full of a sense I thought lost forever.

“I am sorry. I did not see behind the iron and leather. Behind the shackles. Too much blood. Too much tears. Too much raging. I could not hear it properly.

\- Hear what?”, I whisper, and there are tears running down my cheek again as I extend my hand to touch the wooden crate, reverently – and it feels good, and proper, and full of sense.

“The song he carried. The words he held high. The shelter he offered. But now I know. And I am sorry. Never more will I look upon the stone thinking it is barren. Never more will I hold to the false belief Dwarven Souls are bound to rocks.

\- What binds us, then…?”

I cannot believe I am saying these words aloud. I cannot believe my eyes have left your tomb, for a while, sinking in these honey-coloured  irises instead.

“Nothing. Everything. His Soul is like a bird. It will fly high.

\-  How do you…?”

I cut myself in time, however. I do not want to discuss that, it is beyond my understanding, and it is our secret. That is now  _my_ secret.

“But yours I saw and understood at once. Very even. Very strong. Fierce and loyal. You I recognised, because we are alike. I do not know how you say it in your language, but you have been named like this, long ago, by those who brought you to life. He was lucky to have you.”

And with these words he falls silent, leaving me to wonder, with a pounding heart, how in Mahal's name he has guessed, how it can be that he knows, that this long forgotten nickname finds its way back into my heart and mind, making me feel like a small boy, and offering strange comfort.

_Mugrê_ . My bear.

_He was lucky to have you_ .

_It will fly high_ .

These are the words carrying me through what follows. The Company is there, always there, always close, and we are rounding the tombs quietly now that the watch has begun.

I can see Balin crying, and somehow the dignity of it is even more heart-breaking, causing the younger ones to weep more quietly. Ori is in Dori's arms, and he cannot keep his eyes from the lads – because he is barely older, because they used to be invincible, because he cannot conceive they are gone, and still struggles to believe it. 

It is Nori who hovers first around your tomb, and this time his gaze does not leave your face. He is staring at you intently, determinedly, and I can see no jest, no provocation in his eyes – just the firm intention to remember, and carve your features into his mind.

Bombur is the second, oddly enough. Probably because he was the first to touch the lads, his hands unafraid to caress their cheeks, and to linger for a moment on their forearms. He has children. He has buried one, on an unforgiving winter. He knows there is nothing you can do, but that there is still touch, and warmth, and he does not fear to offer it. He does the same with you, his face grave, his fingertips brushing your collarbone, and I am reminded of all these times where he would make sure to have a bowl of warm soup carried to you. Especially on the days you spent outside, reinforcing, supervising the mines and forges, always forgetting about food. I still see the way your face softened, as soon as you took the first spoons, realising you were ravenous and grateful for his care – and the way Bombur used to shake his head, telling Dis you were hopelessly thin...

Bifurdoes not leave Bombur's side. His gaze is wide, and somewhat wild – and I can see he is frightened, shocked, and struggling to understand. He takes deep gulps of air when it is his turn to round the lads, and I know it is his way to cry. I am there when he reaches you, and watch him reach out for your hand, running his thumb against your knuckles, on and on, trying to hold on to what he knows, until his shudders abide. Until he understands, as his fingers close around yours and find them unresponsive, that you are truly gone. He weeps, then, very quietly – and allows Bombur to hug him tightly once he manages to place your hand back on your chest.

Bofur is with the Halfling, and they both cry. They are friends, they understand each other, and I know Bilbo would probably not have dared to follow us down there had Bofur not assured him it was his right as well. I see Bofur's face cloud in grief as he touches Kíli's face, and fall when his gaze meets Fíli's. He used to be their father's closest friend – used to play with them, and amuse them, and always laughed with them. And when he shakes his head sadly, I know all the words are said. We are all the same, Thorin. We all think we should have been the buried ones, not them.

Glóin and Óin follow tightly, and I am reminded of the large age-gap between them as I see them move. The old healer tired and slow, the wrinkles on his brow and around his eyes deepened, and his eyes red – because he has softened, because Óin ever had issues with young lads dying, and because he has spent the night trying to be there for those still living. And Glóin mourning freely, tears falling down his fiery beard – because he has helped to dress the lads and has seen their wounds, and because he feels guilty to think it a blessing that his Gimli had still been too young to set out. 

There are deep voices singing, inside, and a horn blowing outside, and I know that Erebor is mourning along with Dale, and what is left of Laketown.

And so it should be. We are all together in this – they all deserve to mourn their dead, and I am glad they have enough understanding to mourn yours, as well. I do not know what they say among them, how they comment what happened, and what they think – somehow I do not care, because there is nothing I can do against it.

I can just stand here, and watch the Wizard come forth, after what could be hours, days or merely seconds. We have gathered together, are standing in line behind your tomb, and we watch Gandalf rise his staff where a soft light is burning, his gaze sad and old as he watches your three bodies stretched there, upon the stone, among countless lights.

And when he speaks, it is with a reverence I would not have thought possible in one so old, so shrewd, and so used to dwell with his own thoughts and schemes.

“ _The King has come into his own. Under Mountain, under stone. Send him now unto the deep. Unto earth, eternal sleep. Under Mountain, under stone_.”

He repeats these words softly, and I can see his blue gaze shine – but I am not ready yet, Thorin. Not ready to forgive him, for having urged you on and then left your side, for having behaved as stubbornly as you did, for having scolded you in front of that Elvenking – of course it led to you set even more dead against everyone, what did he expect…?

Yes, I resent him. Because it is easy. Because I can. And because he still owes us explanations. Because I cannot shake the feeling of him having used you as a mere pawn, and letting you down when you most needed him.

But then, perhaps I am wrong. For he is also the one who revived you, on that rock, after the Warg's teeth had dug through your chest and ribs, after I had believed you dead. He is the one who saved us from the Goblin's cave, and who led us to Beorn whose words quenched some of the tears quelling from my heart.

Perhaps I am wrong. I do not know anymore, Thorin. I just repeat the words along with the others, because this is what I have ever wished for you: to be sheltered and at rest...

“ _Under Mountain, under stone_.”

And after that, Thorin, after that… I raise my gaze towards Dáin, because I know what has to come next, even with every fibre of my being struggling against this injustice, this outrage, this mad world that does not run the way it should.

“ _Through all the lands, let it be known: the King is dead_.”

The sob wrecking through my chest is low, and hurts. I do not want this. I cannot live with this. I do not want this day, and those who will follow. I want you. I have no purpose without you. I am useless if not standing at your side.

I cannot do this.

But then I hear my brother's voice. And it is clear, and quivering, and full of duty and strength, and I see, once more, what it means to be a keeper of traditions, of beliefs, of knowledge. I see how proud I can be of him, because Balin will not let his own grief hinder our people in the course we have to follow.

There are tears in his eyes, and these are the hardest words he ever had to speak, and I know already he won't speak for the rest of the day, not really, just head for the ramparts you both used to love and stand there, until the sun sets, allowing his grief to come forth unseen.

“ _Long live… the King_.”

He raises his sword, and his arm quivers, but Balin has done it. The last duty he owed you – the one I almost managed to deny you, Thorin. The hardest thing I ever had to do, and that I am still not sure to achieve: letting you go.

“ _Long live the King!_ ”

Somehow I managed to say it along with the others. Somehow, in the blur that fills my mind after what still feels like a betrayal, I cross Dáin's brown eyes and remember I am not the only one who struggles, and will have to move on.

Do not ask me to swear my oath to him, Thorin. Please don't. Do not disavow me. I only had one _mamarrakhûn_ , I only was _mamarrakhûn_ to one, and it was you.

It will always be you.

Please fly high, and do not look backwards. Please rest. Let them embrace you, let them love you – take care of you now that I cannot anymore. I promise I will make sure to keep your name honoured. And I promise I will try to help achieving what you dreamed of. I will not let Dáin struggle with the Mountain alone, if Mahal still gives me strength and ability.

But first, I will do as it is right. Place Roäc on your chest once you will return to the stone, putting the Arkenstone just below – because I know you never cared for any treasure but those of the heart, not in your full mind and not while you were yourself.

Then I will kiss the lads, one last time, and try to let them go as well, because somehow I have to think of the only one still left. Of their mother, my Dís, the One I never wed because I wanted her to escape this precise fate, and because I chose you.

I will go back to her, Thorin. Not because I want something of her, but because she has the right to be faced, and comforted, and because she will want to know.

This is where I belong, Thorin. Not at your side, not anymore, despite my grief, my tears, my loss and my rage, despite the fact that _I still want_ _it_.

I shall try to go on, Thorin, even though I barely know how. I promise.

And you will always be there, deep inside, to remind me to keep going, to urge me on, the ghost of a punch in the ribs when I deserve it, the shadow of an embrace should I waver.

Every day of my remaining life.

Until I will finally be allowed to join you.

Fly, my sparrow. Fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are... It feels so weird... I never thought it would be so hard to let go. But this is, indeed, the end of Dwalin's fic. Please do not ask me to write the way he brings the news to Dis. This is something that truly hurts too much, and that has been done brilliantly by my friend Pericula Ludus in her fic 'No Sacrifice' that truly deserves to be read.  
> I dearly hope you liked it. Academic little note : the words Gandalf speaks have been cut from the extended edition, but can be found on Youtube for those who want to hear it. Balin's answer is in the movie, and has me crying everytime, like practically each of Balin's replies ever since his "I remember".
> 
> This is the end, but it is not the end. I am still working on Thorin's kilometrical fic 'The King of Carven Stone', and on Thrain's fic 'Dashatê'. As soon as I will have a life, I plan to write about how Dis met her husband, and maybe some other little variations, but I cannot promise to update quickly because of... well life.
> 
> I just hope we keep in touch, because what I will miss most is what you gave me. Be thanked again, and take care. Meysun.


End file.
